


One Hundred Last Chances

by itsallAvengers



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Breaking Up (temporarily), Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Guilt, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Mind Control, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve is NOT himself here just let me clarify, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, We are pulling out the WHUMP TAGS ON THIS NIGHT FOLKS!, this is a Pain Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallAvengers/pseuds/itsallAvengers
Summary: Tony loves Steve more than anything, and Steve makes him happier than anyone, so it doesn't matter if he's started hitting Tony when he's angry. It's fine. He can deal with it.He can.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> STEVE IS MIND CONTROLLED AND I PROMISE I WILL RESOLVE IT. I couldn't do that to them. Also, I imagine this fic is going to be pretty triggering for some people, so I want to clarify what's going to be in this: Quite graphic description of domestic violence, an abusive relationship involving gaslighting/ emotional manipulation, dubcon due to Tony being scared to say no, and a significant amount of self blame.   
> God, that sounds bad. UHHHHHHHHHHHH anyway have fun! :)

It started on any regular old afternoon, as those things usually did. It’d been a few days since their last fight with the most recent batch of aliens who’d come down to Earth looking for control, so they weren’t even arguing about the battle. It had been about the fucking  _chores_ , of all things.

“Why can’t you just fucking clean up after yourself?” Steve snapped at him as he shoved the plates into the dishwasher and then shut it with a slam, “it’s literally so easy. Eat, finish, put away. That’s it, Tony, Jesus Christ-”

“Alright, chill out,” Tony said with a roll of his eyes as he sat down to eat his breakfast. To him, dishes were somewhat inconsequential. Considering the amount of more important things on his never-ending list of things to do, he couldn’t really say he gave much of a damn. “I’ll remember next time.”

“No you won’t, you never do!” Steve responded curtly as he turned around, “half the time you barely even let any of the information sink into your head before it’s out the other ear again.”

“Oh, well excuse me for having other things on my mind, Steve,” Tony responded curtly, looking at him with an incredulous face, “and it’s not like I just sit here and do jack shit, you know. I’m working to keep this whole fucking building running, usually running your errands for you-”

“And I appreciate that, but when you’ve binge-eaten ten portions of Chinese, it’s just nicer for everyone if you can clean away your stuff, I’m not asking for the world.”

“Sometimes I just get distracted! You know I do, and I usually come back to them later, can you just relax about it-”

“it’s a fucking plate, Tony! Just put the fucking plates away when you’ve finished with them!”

Tony stood up from the counter dramatically, staring daggers at Steve as he tipped his food out into the bin and then marched over to dishwasher where he yanked the door open and then shoved it in messily. Not his most mature response, sure, but he was overtired and it was fucking stupid anyway. “Happy?” He asked with a flourish and a smile.

Steve’s face twisted in disgust. It seemed a little overdramatic considering the nature of their argument, but before Tony could pull him up for the exaggerated glare, Steve’s next words permeated the room.

“You’re such a selfish bastard,” 

Tony froze, the smile slipping right off his face. Steve hadn’t called him selfish in... well,  _years_. And yeah, okay, maybe throwing his breakfast away had been a little stupid of him, and that food could easily have gone somewhere else, but-

Steve shook his head and then pushed past Tony, his shoulder knocking heavily against his own as he did so. Tony stumbled, steadying himself against the counter and looking at the other man with wide eyes. “Steve?” He called out behind him in concern, but got no reply. Steve slammed his way out of the common room a second later, leaving Tony staring bewilderedly at the space he’d left. It had been a stupid argument, but Steve’s words had cut deep. Why had he... God, it was just a fucking  _plate_. Was it selfish to forget to put them away? Maybe it was. Maybe Tony just needed to grow the fuck up and pull his weight. Fuck, Steve was probably right. 

Still. The words stung.

Later that night, though, Steve came back and apologised. Of course he did. Just a bad day, Tony figured. A blip. 

“I don’t know what came over me,” Steve said, his eyes guilty as he settled a hand delicately on Tony’s neck, “but I’m sorry. It was out of line.”

And, of course, Tony forgave him. It really was just a stupid argument, after all. They’d had far worse, and Tony had been an asshole about it too. Eventually Tony agreed to doing his best at remembering to put his stuff in the dishwasher when he used it, and Steve kissed him in thanks, and then they fell asleep together. The next day, it had slipped Tony’s mind entirely. 

And then six days later, they had another argument.

Tony had been late back from the gala and was a little more drunk than usual, thanks to meeting some old friends from back at MIT there. It’d been a fun night, if he was being honest- more fun than how those sorts of things usually went, anyway. He should have told Steve he’d be late though. Although, in all honesty, he’d thought the most he’d get was an exasperated sigh and a gentle request for Tony to _remember to check in, okay, I’m happy you had a good time- I just wanna make sure you’re not being kidnapped or anything, yeah? You know that I worry about that stuff._

That hadn’t been what had happened, though.

He slipped through the doors of their room, toeing off his shoes at the threshold and then running a hand through his hair, thinking of warmth and covers and soft pillows. He could do with falling straight to bed by that point in the night. It had been a good time, but a long one too. Although, unfortunately, he knew he was also probably going to have to shower before-hand too. He smelled like alcohol and sweat

Except when he looked up, he saw Steve sat at the desk, looking at him with cold eyes. He looked tired, Tony thought. A little ill. “Where the hell have you been?”

Tony paused, blinking slowly. “Uhh,” he began, “the Gala?” Admittedly, he was quite drunk, but not  _that_ bad, surely- he knew where he’d spent the night, thank you very much.

Steve just sneered. And it was weird- Steve didn’t do that, he never sneered. “Yeah, thanks, I know that,” he snapped, “but you said you’d come home nearly two hours ago. What the hell were you doing?”

Tony raised his hands defensively. “Whoah there, soldier, I didn’t realise staying out after curfew was a capital offence now.”

“Jesus, can you not do that right now-”

“-Do what?”

“The whole ‘oh, I’m Tony Stark and I can do what I want because no one explicitly told me otherwise’ thing,” Steve said harshly, standing up from the desk and walking over to him. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, confirming that he hadn’t been getting much sleep.  “Do you know how worried I was? I was Goddamn seconds away from going out there and looking for you myself. I called seven times, Tony, and you didn’t answer.”

Tony looked up at Steve with a small note of apology on his face. “I left it somewhere in the Gala,” he admitted sheepishly, “sorry-”

“You  _what?”_  Steve’s eyes widened as he clenched his jaw, “your phone? Your highly important, full-of-secret-and-confidential-information phone? You left that at a fucking charity gala? I can’t believe you. That’s... Tony, that’s so fucking stupid. I thought you said you took your job seriously, but here you are, too drunk to even remember to pick up your Goddamn phone.” Steve held his head in his hands and sighed loudly, and Tony... Tony just stared at him blankly, wondering what the fuck was going on. Since when had Steve ever talked to him like that? 

“Do you really think that anyone’s gonna be able to get into that thing? It’s encrypted to high heaven, Steve, chill the fuck out for a second and quit talking to me like I’m a fucking baby-”

He jumped in surprise as he felt Steve’s arms snap away from his own face and curl tightly around Tony’s biceps, shoving him back so he hit the wall. His head thumped lightly against it, not enough to hurt, but enough to know that it could. If Steve pressed a little harder, he could.

In his head, all Tony could think was ‘oh’.

“You never fucking  _think_ when you do this sort of stuff,” Steve hissed at him, his fingers digging into Tony’s arms painfully. “You just do whatever the fuck you see fit, never taking into consideration how it could affect other people. I was scared  _shitless_ , Tony.”

He lifted his hands, raising them in defeat. Suddenly, for some reason, he felt a little shaky. Steve could look... well, he could look scary when he wanted to. Not that Tony was  _scared_ , obviously, he knew Steve would never hurt him. And anyway- Steve probably had a point. Tony should have been more careful, more considerate. Steve got worried easily, and Tony knew that, and he should have been... better, about all of it. Now Steve was upset. Upset enough to be looking at Tony like  _that_.

“I’m sorry,” he said in the end, his voice quiet, “I didn’t think, I guess.”

Steve looked at him for another moment with his clenched jaw, before it dissipated a moment later, just like that. His fingers softened against his arms, becoming a gentle hold as opposed to a grip. He sighed and looked down, knocking their foreheads together. “I know you didn’t,” he said quietly, “you never do.”

Tony swallowed, feeling the way the words stabbed through his chest just a little bit. He’d thought that he was getting better at the whole ‘relationship’ stuff- Steve had always said he was doing fine, but... well, now it seemed that a little bit of the truth was coming out tonight. It was correct, he supposed. Steve wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t.

“I didn’t mean to get so angry,” Steve told him softly, a thumb brushing across Tony’s cheek, “I just... I worry. You’re out there and you’re drunk, and you have a lot of enemies-”

“I was  _fine_ , Steve,” he said placatingly, “I don’t usually get drunk enough at those sorts of things to be vulnerable anymore, and I can always call the suit. You don’t need to worry. But I promise I’ll call next time, okay?”

Steve nodded, a tired smile breaking out. “Kay.”

And that was that. Argument over. A little uncharacteristic of Steve, admittedly- Tony loved him to death, but if the man got himself worked up over something, he tended to stew on it. However Tony wasn’t exactly complaining; as soon as they’d gotten into bed, Steve rolled closer to Tony and then licked the champagne out of his mouth, made love to him fast and rough, moaning Tony’s name as he came in the most beautiful way possible. The next morning, Tony woke up with Steve’s arms wrapped around his midsection and his nose buried into the back of Tony’s neck, and it was all perfect and fine. Steve didn’t bring the argument up again, although Tony quietly made sure to get JARVIS to inform Steve if ever he was going to be running late for things. If it’d make Steve happy, he didn’t mind.

He also wore a long-sleeved shirt the next day. Steve hadn’t meant to, but he was so strong that he sometimes forgot when he held things too tight, they tended to bruise. But it was okay.

 

Or at least- it was okay right up until the one evening where it... wasn’t.

 

He’d been on some stupid talk-show, doing the usual PR rounds that he always had to do when a new big Stark Product launched. Also on that talk-show had been another celebrity with whom Tony may or may not have had a tremendously large crush on in his younger years, and now merely swooned over whenever he saw the man in movies. Steve knew that. Steve had always laughed and rolled his eyes and said Tony’s starstruck face always reminded him of a teenage girl. 

Tony hadn’t been flirting with him on the show that night. He swore it. Not... not really, it was only a joke, just like he did with everyone and Steve  _knew_ that, he’d  _always known,_  it was just who Tony was. Yeah, maybe sometimes it made him a little jealous and he’d pout and then kiss Tony a little bit harder, but it had never mattered. Or at least, Tony had never thought that it mattered. 

He realised now that it probably had. It had been hurting Steve all that time, and Tony had just continued to be an asshole about it. Like he always was. 

Really, he figured he’d probably had it coming.

Tony stepped out into the common room with a small sigh of contentment, breathing in the smell of popcorn and home. It’d been a pleasant night, all things considered- the presenter hadn’t asked any uncomfortable questions, the banter had been good and Tony hadn’t had anything thrown at him  _once_. He thought Fury at least had to be happy about that much, right?

As he wandered into the kitchen to grab a quick slice of toast before heading up to bed, he realised with surprise that Steve was still there, stood leaning rigidly against the countertops. There was a mug of coffee at his side, but it wasn’t steaming. Must’ve been there for quite a while. Tony blinked in surprise at the sight of him, having fully expected the man to be in bed already- Steve was a stickler to his routine, and 11pm was usually his cut-off point.

Tony opened his mouth to greet him, but Steve got in first. 

 “Do you really just care about me  _that_ little?”

Tony, admittedly, didn’t even think he was being serious at first. He frowned and then dropped his bags at the door, before remembering Steve’s sharp words about cleanliness and picking them up again. “Oh God, what have I done this time?” he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes as he wandered into Steve’s space and looked around the room. 

Steve turned to face him and backhanded him across the face so quickly that  Tony didn’t even see the hand fly. 

He staggered back, the wind making a hissing noise as Steve’s fingers whipped through the air. He lifted a hand to cover his cheek and then sent out another one to steady his body against the counter. It stung with sharp pain; sharper than a normal slap would. Then again, it was Steve. He was stronger than just a normal slap. 

The world felt like it’d frozen on its axis as he looked up at his lover in complete and utter shock. It didn’t compute in his brain. Steve... Steve didn’t just hit people. He’d  _never_ hit Tony. 

It didn’t make sense.

“Do you know what it’s like to get publicly embarrassed by your partner on live television?” Steve said, his hands clenched at his sides as his chest heaved. His eyes were wet- God, he was about to cry. “To watch him blatantly come on to some B-list actor as if his boyfriend isn’t sat at home, already fucking  _devoted_ to him?”

Tony’s mouth dropped open. His face hurt like a motherfucker, and his eyes were watering from the impact. “Steve,” he began croakily, but the man just waved his hand sharply through the air again. Tony flinched back, just in case- but that one wasn’t meant for him. 

“Don’t even bother,” Steve spat, “God, I feel fucking humiliated. Can’t you just stick to one person in your relationship, Tony? Is it that hard?”

Tony came to several conclusions pretty fast.

One: if it was severe enough that Steve had actually hit him, then Tony had quite clearly fucked up monumentally. God, Steve was close to tears. Tony had done that to him. No wonder Steve was feeling angry.   
Two: He needed to try and fix this before it got too out of hand and he managed to lose Steve for good. The thought of that was unimaginable and he could not let that happen.  
Three: Steve’s hands could fucking  _hurt_ when they wanted to, and Tony had no idea how much he was even holding back. He should probably make sure he didn’t get Steve angry enough to do it again. That’d just be messy for everyone.

He stood up a little straighter, pulling his hand away from his face and swallowing the strange lump in his throat. He felt a little betrayed, but it had been him who’d fucked up. It didn’t make any sense, and suddenly there were a billion different thoughts all fighting to get to the surface. He felt so confused. “I didn’t think you minded,” he mumbled weakly, at a loss for something else to say. He knew it was stupid as soon as the words came out of his mouth though, and the look Steve shot him had him stepping back again.

But Steve didn’t move. Just stared at him, his face twisted and angry. “Wow. Guess this is what to expect when you try to date a whore,” he said quietly, chuckling with a complete lack of amusement as he turned his back and then began to walk away. “I’m going to the gym. Just go to bed, Tony. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Tony could only stand there, numb, as he watched Steve walk away from him. His cheek felt like it was on fire, and he should probably go find some ice for it, but if he did it felt like it would just make things a little more real. 

Steve had just hit him.

He blinked rapidly and looked down, blinking back the stinging tears. No, no, he was being irrational. He’d probably had that one coming. He knew if the situations were reversed- if he’d watched Steve flirt with someone in front of millions of people, he’d feel humiliated and angry too. And he and Steve... they weren’t like normal couples. Their relationship wasn’t normal. Tensions were always running higher, and Steve was just used to solving things with his hands. It wasn’t like Tony couldn’t handle it anyway. He was strong. He was a superhero. 

And... God, it was Steve. Steve wouldn’t hurt a fly unless they deserved it. He was the kindest, most Honorable man Tony knew. It wasn’t... it was fine. 

Tony stood there for a long time, before finally pulling himself together and taking Steve’s advice, stumbling up to their bedroom and silently removing his suit from the night. After that, he showered, then methodically brushed his teeth and slipped into bed. He didn’t look at the mirror as he went. Guilt and shame curled up in his gut, sat there like a tangible thing clawing at his insides. He curled up into a small ball and tried to sleep, but it just wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he tried. He felt like he’d let Steve down. A  _whore_ , Steve’d called him. And Tony knew... look, he wasn’t ashamed of how many people he’d slept with and he never fucking would be, but- but the way Steve had said it, with such  _derision_ -

It made feel Tony feel dirty. 

That was the way Steve must see him, sometimes. And if he asked, he was well aware Steve would disagree, tell him _no, that’s not what I meant,_ but Tony wasn’t dumb. Of all the things they said to one another- alone and with friends, laughing and joking, when Tony was crying and Steve was curled around him kissing his cheeks and whispering everything he loved about Tony into his ear- it was the things said during arguments were always the bitterest of truths. Steve wasn’t like Tony. He didn’t yell just to yell, spit insults that held no truth to them just to get a reaction. He only ever told people the truth of the matter. 

A whore. That’s what Steve really thought. And Tony would  _never_ cheat, not in a million years,  _especially_ not with Steve- but it didn’t matter. He guessed his reputation surpassed him, because it seemed as if Steve already assumed that he could. With some stupid fucking movie star that meant nothing.

It hurt. Tony tried to sleep through it, but the pain persisted deep under his chest and kept him awake, stewing, thinking and thinking and thinking.

Then he heard Steve come in again. 

Tony froze up, keeping very still as Steve slowly padded into the bathroom, showering for a minute to get the sweat off and then quickly brushing his teeth. It’d been about two hours since their blowup in the kitchen, and so Tony should have been asleep. But instead he was wide awake, thinking of everything he’d done wrong. He needed to be better for Steve if he wanted to keep him, and that needed to start by Tony toning it down with the flirting. Maybe he’d thought Steve didn’t mind it before, but now he was aware, and he had to keep Steve happy. That was what was important. 

When Steve eventually came back out of the bathroom, Tony heard him stop at the foot of the bed. “I know you’re awake, sweetheart,” he said, his voice tired. Soft.

Tony sat up a little. “Hi,” he said weakly, “Steve, I’m... I’m so sorry-”

“No, God, I am,” Steve interrupted with a wave of his hand, falling to the bed next to Tony’s feet and then looking at Tony like a puppy, “I’ve been thinking about it all night, and... look, you  _shouldn’t_ do that, no, but it’s who you are. And I got too angry about it. I overreacted because I was emotional.”

Tony shook his head, sitting up further. “No, it was my fault,” he said immediately, “you were emotional because I hurt you. You should have just told me it bothered you. I would’ve stopped.”

Steve paused. “You make me so angry sometimes,” he said, biting his lip and then lifting his hand to gently settle it against Tony’s still-sensitive cheek. “But you’re okay, right? You’re fine.”

This should have been the part where Tony said no. That he wasn’t okay, that this didn’t make things better. The part where he should have told Steve to never put a finger on him in that way again. But he didn’t. Because it was just a one-off, and he didn’t need to say that. He knew that Steve knew what he was doing. And Tony was a fucking nightmare to deal with on the best of days. 

It was okay.

“I’m fine,” he said with a nod, and then Steve smiled as he leaned in and kissed him, not taking long before it grew hot and hungry, deepening for more. Tony knew where the direction of those sorts of kisses led immediately- but Steve had been feeling pretty... enthusiastic about sex over the past week or two, and what with the way the night had gone, Tony was just too tired. He kissed back as good as he got for a little, but when Steve reached down and pressed his hand against Tony’s crotch, Tony shook his head. 

“I’m not feeling it tonight, babe,” he admittedly quietly, “really tired.”

Steve just paused, his face turning sour for a moment. “Seriously?” He asked, voice hard. “You’re gonna fuck around with someone else all night and then come home and push your own boyfriend away?” 

He frowned, opening his mouth to defend himself, say he hadn’t even been doing anything above playful banter on that stupid fucking talkshow- but before he could start anything, Steve just t’sked in his mouth and shook his head, wiping a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he said roughly, “sorry, I just... please? Come on. For me.”

Tony swallowed, looking up at Steve and his soft, hopeful face. He was too tired to argue this further. If Steve wanted it, whatever. Tony supposed it was the least he could do. And he didn’t particularly fancy making Steve any angrier tonight.

So he smiled and then shrugged, wrapping his arm around Steve’s neck as he shuffled onto the other man’s lap. “Can’t say no when you ask that nice,” he responded- and when Steve laughed, his face broke out into the most beautiful smile that it made it all worth it. 

See? Fine.

And the next time movie night came around and Tony got told to choose, he held his tongue from saying his favourite- it was one that starred The Actor Who Shall Not Be Named, and he knew Steve wouldn’t like it. He just said something else instead. Because relationships were about compromise, and Tony was trying to be good for Steve. Whatever strange bump this was, they could work through it. Because Tony loved Steve more than anyone or anything, and nothing could change that. 

 

\--

\--

 

Except it got worse. 

Steve’s mood had been consistently low the past few weeks, although he seemed better when he was around the team than he did when he was only with Tony. But whatever it was that was doing it, it made him more argumentative, more quick to anger, more generally sulky than ever before. He was also starting to look constantly ill; a pallor to his cheeks and a redness to his eyes that shouldn’t ever usually be there. Tony tried to get him to go to medical, to maybe talk about it- sometimes Steve didn’t sleep when the insomnia came around, too busy being plagued by flashbacks and nightmares- but Steve never accepted any help. He only got snappy when Tony pushed. 

Sometimes, Tony worried that there was something deeper going on. Sometimes Steve was so... different, than how he was normally. Cold. Unusually... cutting. 

It was probably in his head though. Most of the time, everything was fine. Steve still kissed him, still held him during movie nights. He told Tony he loved him every night before he went to bed and ran his fingers through Tony’s hair while they both sat at the breakfast table. Most times, things were just as easy as ever. 

 

The first time Steve actually punched Tony, it was because he’d been pushing something he shouldn’t have. Really, he was the one to blame there. 

 

They’d just been getting ready for the day in their bathroom, Tony trimming his beard while Steve brushed his teeth. They hadn’t been speaking, but the silence was companionable. Easy. Tony was pressed up against the sink, looking at Steve in the reflection of the mirror with an analytical gaze and a small frown. Steve was looking worse. His cheeks were more gaunt, his skin washed out. He even seemed thinner, which was a little freaky. And Tony knew that whatever it was going on was a sensitive subject, but it had gotten to a point where he didn’t want to take no for an answer. It was clear that Steve wasn’t well, and Tony just wanted to help him. Even if Steve apparently didn’t want that, and was determined to try and deal with it alone. 

“Honey,” he began easily,  “you haven’t happened to have maybe,  _possibly_ gone to see a doctor about how you’ve been feeling lately, have you? I know you don’t want to, but I was just... wondering”

Steve froze against the sink, toothbrush halfway to the rack as he turned his gaze on Tony. “I told you to shut up about that,” he said, demeanour totally changing from the relaxed way he’d been talking to Tony just five minutes ago.

Tony side-eyed him. “I know you have. But I’m worried, Steve. You don’t look well. I know that this might be something that hits a little too close to home, or maybe something you’re convinced the serum will fix, but don’t you think you should just go to Bruce and get a professional opinion or something? Just to double-check?”

He turned and looked at the other man hopefully, but rather than return the warm look, Steve’s face fell further, glaring daggers at him. “I’m not joking, Tony,” he said quietly as he shoved his toothbrush back down and then turned away from Tony, “stop talking about it.”

Tony sighed in dismay, worry fluttering around in his belly. “But this isn’t healthy and I’m worried sick!” He exclaimed, “Steve, you look like death, I  _know_ you’re not sleeping at night, you’re all jittery and stuff- I feel like you’re possessed by a demon or someth-”

Steve whirled around, and Tony only had a second to register the fist before it flew into his jaw and knocked him sideways, sending him off his feet and onto the tiled floor. His elbow knocked painfully against the corner of the bath on the way down, and he landed clumsily with a heavy thud, breath punching out of his lungs with a sharp force.

He froze up completely, feeling the way his skin had torn at the beginning of his jaw-bone. That was going to bleed. 

“I SAID SHUT UP!” Steve was yelling at him, standing over his body as he curled in defensively on the floor- for the first time completely and utterly aware of exactly what Steve could do to him if he got angry enough. “THAT MEANS  _STOP TALKING_ , TONY, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

“Okay,” he stammered, not looking Steve in the eye as he opened and shut his mouth, checking for fractures or breaks, “okay, okay, I’m sorry. Sorry. Okay.”

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, and all Tony could hear was Steve’s breathing. He wanted to move, to stand up so he was a little better defended, but he realised with a horrifying lurch that he was simply too terrified. Steve might kick him, and one of those feet would probably go straight through his ribs.

Eventually, Steve stepped back. Tony plucked up the courage and stared at him, feeling blood trickle down the side of his face. His ears were ringing and his whole body felt like it was burning, too hot and too cold at the same time.

“Come find me when you’re ready to apologize and accept that I have some personal boundaries, Tony.” Steve flexed his hands and then walked out of the door without another word, closing it gently and leaving Tony in the broken silence of their shared bathroom. That was it. Weirdly anticlimatic, Tony thought absently as he pressed a shuddering hand against his jaw and wiped off the blood. He’d expected there would be... more. He wasn’t sure what of. Shouting, maybe. There always seemed to be shouting, when he’d imagined scenarios like this.

He told himself to take a breath and steady himself. He told himself to stop thinking of Howard- of the boys at his boarding school, Ty at MIT. Steve... Steve wasn’t like them. This was different. Steve had reasons- he wasn’t violently natured, not at all, there wasn’t a bad bone in his body. Everyone loved Steve, because Steve was just loveable. A hero. 

This was all on Tony. He was doing this to himself, really. 

Across the floor, he spotted the straight-razor he’d been using to shave a few minutes earlier. Shaking fingers reached out and picked them up, just looking for something vaguely normal for him to do, but his grip was unsteady and he cursed to himself as the blade cut through his thumb. Fuck. He should probably clean it up. Steve got mad about dishes, so he’d undoubtedly lose his shit over blood all over white tiles. 

So he spent twenty minutes methodically cleaning up the bathroom, making sure there was not a speck of red amongst the floor and pretending like he couldn’t feel his jaw throbbing in pain. It was stiffening up and he needed to get some ice for it, but he couldn’t go downstairs. The team were downstairs and they’d ask, and Tony didn’t know what to say to them. He couldn’t say Steve had hit him- that was too incriminating and, and out-of-context, and anyway, none of them would believe him anyway, because it was Steve. 

He could deal with it. It was fine. It was good. 

Of course, though, Steve came to the rescue not even half an hour later. Apparently calmed down from his earlier outburst, he found Tony still scrubbing at the floor of their bathroom and then sighed loudly, the “oh, Tony,” permeating the air like a heavy bass note in a silent auditorium. He crouched down on his haunches and then gently pulled Tony into his chest, stroking his hair until he stopped shaking so hard, and then gently pressed an ice-pack to the swelling on his cheek. 

“Please,” Steve whispered sadly, “don’t make me do that again. I can’t bear hurting you.”

Tony just nodded, noting down the information into his growing bank of how-to-get-steve-to-not-hit-you tips and tricks. His jaw felt better after a few minutes with the pack, and Steve was kind to him- made him laugh with that dry, sarcastic humour of his. He seemed sorry. He didn’t say it, but he definitely  _seemed_ it, and that was enough. Tony knew how hard it could be to apologise sometimes. 

He thought about talking to Steve about it. About how he had to stop taking his anger out on Tony, that it wasn’t something they could keep doing, Tony could risk getting properly hurt by Steve and then it’d just be a mess- but he didn’t quite know how to broach it without Steve freaking out. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it, and so Tony didn’t want to be the one to do it. He didn’t want to know what the repercussions might be if he did. Anyway, it was... it was hardly even bad, really. Like he’d said earlier- superheroes. It was a different ballgame entirely, and Tony could take a knock or two. Hell, he’d had worse injuries from Steve when they’d been doing friendly sparring in the ring, and here Tony was acting like it was the end of the world. 

It wasn’t. It was just... nothing. Fine. They’d be fine. 

Once the ice had melted and Tony had managed to rationalise the situation a little better in his head, Steve took his hand and led Tony back to the bedroom where they fucked, Steve keeping it soft and gentle like it was an apology. Still, though, Tony couldn’t say he was feeling particularly into it. But he didn’t really want to say no- especially not when he was in such a vulnerable position. Steve didn’t really  _need_ permission anyway- they’d been dating for damn near three years by that point, so it was okay. If it kept Steve happy, Tony would do it whenever he wanted. Obviously. And Tony loved having sex with Steve too... most times. Just recently, it seemed- a little off. A little different. Tony couldn’t quite pinpoint it, and it was just those past few weeks. He was sure it was all in his head. 

Fifteen minutes later and Steve came with a bitten-off moan, biting down against Tony’s shoulder gently. A few seconds after that, Tony did too, and when he opened his eyes again Steve was smiling at him, all gentle and soft and normal. His face was still pale and sickly. But Tony knew better than to ask now. “You look adorable when you come,” Steve murmured, kissing Tony messily, “have I told you that?”

“Multiple times,” Tony said with a roll of his eyes and a grin, ignoring the way it gave his cheek hell. 

Steve just huffed in amusement, looking down at Tony with a gentle gaze. He pressed a delicate kiss to the hickey on Tony’s neck and then slipped out, going to grab a cloth and clean them both up. Afterwards, he pulled on his uniform and left for SHIELD- something about training the new recruits or whatever. Tony, with a relatively free day, decided to just go down to the labs and pester Bruce about his project. He’d been pretty obsessed with it over the past week or so, and Tony was intrigued. It would be a good way to take his mind off all the things he was feeling, too. Science. The solution to every problem.

He just wished he’d put some makeup on first.

“Christ on a bike, Tony, what happened to your  _face_?” Was, of course, the first thing out of Bruce’s mouth. He turned away from the desk he was leaning over and stared in dismay at the deep purple bruise that had started to form along Tony’s jaw and cheek, and the butterfly bandages that he’d hastily stuck on to close up the cut.

Tony froze in the doorway, resisting the urge to put a hand up and cover it. That’d be suspicious. Not that- not that there was anything to be suspicious about. “You’d be surprised how dangerous it can be when you mix DUM-E and large wrenches together,” he said in the end, grinning lopsidedly and ignoring the way it made something in his heart break just a fraction. Bruce frowned, and Tony rolled his eyes. “Yes, before you ask, I have iced it. It’ll be fine in a day or so. Anyway, enough about me- what’re you working on?”

 Bruce looked at him for another moment before shrugging and gesturing down at the weird orb thing that had apparently been captivating Doctor Banner’s attention for all this time. “I’m not really working on it, so much as trying to figure out what it does. I know that it’s emitting some sort of frequency. The same frequency that was disrupting our comms when we were fighting those aliens back a the start of the month, you remember?”

Tony thought back to a few weeks ago, when they’d been fighting said aliens. “They were the ones who smelled all weird, weren’t they?” he asked with  a frown, and Bruce nodded his confirmation. “Ew. Didn’t like those guys.”

“Do you like any of the aliens who invade our home?”

“I like the cute ones. Those little kitten-types were nice.”

“They spat acid all over your face.”

“Yeah yeah,” Tony waved a hand and hopped onto the desk, “semantics.”

Bruce sighed and rubbed his forehead. “ _Anyway_ ,” he stormed on, “this weird orb thingy is, as far as I can tell, what was responsible for their hive-mind functions. I’m not sure how they managed to meld an entire army to it, but there you go. Possibly some sort of registry that only they were attuned to. It’s difficult to work it out when I’ve got no aliens left to ask. But from the effects we saw on the army themselves, it was pretty... violent. Lots of rage in those guys. The Hulk didn’t like the way they howled.”

Tony hummed, fingers poking absently at a couple of petri dishes before Bruce smacked his hand away and then got back to whatever he was typing up on his computer. Tony quickly settled down into some work of his own- Clint’s sticky arrows were decidedly Not Sticky enough, and Tony had been trying to work out which formulae would work best for  _months_ now- and before either of the scientists knew it, Thor was calling them both for dinner. They looked up from their work in surprise, before laughing bashfully. “I forgot about hunger,” Bruce said with a yawn, “and sleep, I guess.”

Tony rolled his eyes, standing up and cracking his back. “Well, luckily you’ve got us to jog your memory. Let’s go eat, Brucie.”

When they arrived up in the kitchen, they got a variety of cheers and ‘The Geniuses Return!’. Of course, Tony got his ‘your face looks like it got hit by a truck’ comments too, but he quickly passed them off with the same excuse he’d given Bruce, and soon it was forgotten in favour of dinner. Steve arrived back home about half-way through, and although his face looked pinched, he still smiled at them all and then kissed Tony on the forehead as he passed to get his plate from the side. Tony smiled with his good side and didn’t think about why there was now a good and a bad side to his face. Didn’t matter. 

He had Steve, and he loved Steve, and he was never going to stop that, and everything else could be worked out. 

Simple.

 

\--

\--

 

...But it all came back to him at night, when he was sleepless and tinkering in the workshop. 

 _Steve’s hitting you,_  the pathetic little voice at the back of his mind said, quiet and scared,  _he’s hitting you and that’s wrong, that will always be wrong, you know it will._

He shut the voice off and wrenched something into place viciously. It was different.  _They_ were different. Steve wasn’t abusing him. He was just.... stress relieving. On Tony’s face. Yeah. Anyway- Tony had seen what Steve did to the  _real_ abusers; he’d seen the look of disgust and rage on his face as he’d knocked them through the walls and then told the wife, the husband, the child that they were safe now, they wouldn’t hurt them any more. Steve wouldn’t abuse anyone, because he quite clearly hated abusers. 

_He hit you in the face._

_Yeah, because I deserved it,_  Tony thought viciously as he grabbed a bolt from where it had almost rolled off the desk. Steve had boundaries and Tony hadn’t respected them. Steve had feelings, and Tony had hurt them. Tony didn’t blame him- he’d punch himself too, if he was in his own company for more than three minutes. The fact Steve had been doing it close to three years was incredible. 

Tony couldn’t lose him.

_If he’s doing this to you, then he’s already gone._

“Shut up,” Tony hissed to the empty room, shoving the stupid piece of shit he’d been working on away and then pressing the palms of his hands into his eye-sockets. He was exhausted, and hadn’t had a proper sleep in days. He needed... he needed Steve. But these days it was hit-or-miss as to whether he’d get  _Steve_ or- or the colder version, the less familiar one. That Steve wasn’t really a fan of hugs. He liked to fuck, which is mostly what they’d been doing whenever they were in bed together these lately, which was okay, but admittedly somewhat exhausting. And recently he’d decided he liked it fast and hard and rough, and Tony was all for that, but again... Steve was strong. And Tony was waking up with more bruises than he could count these days. It was good, it was hot, but. You know. Tony missed the hugging, too. Steve would probably drop the phase soon anyway- he was a teddybear at heart, and he was the one who had actually got Tony to enjoy cuddles in the first place, so Tony knew that it wasn’t anything he’d have to think about in the long term.

( He didn’t want to admit to himself that he’d felt scared going up to bed recently, but it was there. In the corner of his mind, waiting to be acknowledged.)

He sighed and then sat up straighter in his chair, pulling the stupid contraption back into his tinkering range. Bruce had tracked him down earlier that night to say that he’d noticed the alien orb they’d obtained from the previous fight was still transmitting a signal to something, which meant they had a rogue alien still running loose in New York somewhere, and now Tony was trying to develop a locator that would be able to follow the frequency to wherever their unwelcome visitor was still hiding. It was pretty dull work, really,  but it was currently the only thing keeping his mind occupied, so he wanted to devote his entire attention to it if he could. He wasn’t tired anyway. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Steve came in later, but he knew it was probably sometime in the early morning. He dropped what he was doing and turned in his chair, face falling when he took in Steve’s expression. He looked annoyed. 

“Tony, it’s three-fifteen,” he said with a sigh, “why aren’t you in bed yet?”

“Uhhh,” Tony waved a hand, “working, you know. Busy.”

“We have to be up early tomorrow for the New York schools tour. How are you gonna cope with that on three hours of sleep?”

“The same way I always do,” Tony said with a nervous laughter, “coffee.”

Steve made an irritated noise, and Tony decided to stand up. Just because. “Look, Steve, I’ll be up soon-”

“You’ll be up  _now_ , Tony,” he pointed a finger upward, in the direction of their room, and Tony pulled a face, unable to help himself. 

“You’re not my mother, Steve,” he snapped angrily, “go back to bed.”

Steve’s eyebrows raised, and warning bells started to go off in Tony’s head on autopilot, every sense suddenly dialled up to eleven as the supersoldier in front of him unfolded his arms and took a step forward. Before he could advance further though, Tony suddenly jerked and held out a hand. “If you hit me, I’m leaving, I swear to fucking God Steve.”

There was a long silence, where Steve just stared at him. 

Then he laughed. 

Tony’s stomach dropped in fear, and Steve took another step forward, slowly advancing with a shake of his head. “Oh really,” he said with a sneer, and Tony thought about calling the armour- but God, the armour was for  _villains_ , for  _bad people_ , Steve wasn’t one of them, “you’re gonna leave? Where to? Who are you going to go to, Tony? This is our home. You and me, we’re the foundations of this place, the glue that holds this team together. You know that. And you really say you’re going to just... leave?”

Tony backed up as Steve took another step forward, his thighs hitting the side of the desk. “I do what the fuck I want,” he said, his voice angry and his lip curled, showing bravery he really wasn’t feeling. 

Unfortunately, Steve knew him well enough to see that. “I love you, Tony,” he said softly, “and you love me. We’re  _good_ for eachother. We are the only fucking people on this planet who actually understand one another.” He’d reached touching distance of Tony by that point, and Tony pointedly looked away from him, arms folded, jaw set stubbornly. He wasn’t going to back down and apologise. Not tonight. 

Steve sighed.

-And then, without warning, he bent low and shot an uppercut to Tony’s stomach, hard and brutal and enough to knock the air right out of his fragile lungs. 

Tony gasped, feeling a rib crack with the impact. He bent double but Steve caught him in his arms, holding him steady as he wheezed. Tony was too busy trying to tamp down on the urge to cry out to push him off, so he just sagged into Steve’s hold instead, broken and pathetic. 

“There’s your chance,” Steve whispered into his hair, smug, “leave if you want. But you won’t. I know you won’t. So don’t lie to me, Tony, because I don’t appreciate it.”

Tony clenched his eyes shut and pushed Steve away weakly. This time, Steve went- and with no one to hold him up, his shaky knees buckled and he fell to the floor. It sent another flame of agony through his midsection and he whimpered, curling up into himself. It hurt like hell. He was pretty sure a rib had been broken completely. 

He refused to watch Steve as he left the room. But as the sounds of the doors whispered through the room, Tony let himself look up with watery eyes. His hands were shaking like crazy, and he’d never felt more off-kilter in his whole life. He couldn’t stop the tears that sprang behind his eyes. It felt like everything was falling apart- this wasn’t the Steve he’d fallen in love with, it felt like it had happened so fast- or maybe it had been coming for a while, but Tony had just been too blind to notice. 

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to fucking do. 

 _Leave,_  the voice in his head told him, stronger this time,  _get out while you still can. You know how this goes. It won’t get better and it won’t end well._

But he couldn’t just....go. Breaking up with Steve would fracture the team, it was true. They’d ask why. And Tony couldn’t tell them, they’d never fucking believe him. Tony barely believed it himself. They’d just think he was lying or exaggerating or trying to cover his own ass. So he’d have to make something up, say it was something shitty he himself had done, and then they’d hate him and everything would be ruined. Plus, Steve was still there, somewhere, Tony knew it. He could change back to normal in a month, and Tony wouldn’t know because he’d thrown away their entire relationship thanks to some stupid rough patch. 

He couldn’t go. Steve was right. God- if Tony had just kept his mouth shut in the first place, Steve would probably not even have touched him. He always did this, always made it worse for himself. He was just a fucking idiot. 

God, his ribs hurt. Tears were burning in his eyes, and he felt like his heart was going to sink through the floor. Everything was just so  _difficult_ , he didn’t know where to turn. There was no-one he could talk to who’d believe him, not even for a second. Because it just wasn’t what Steve did. Everyone knew that. 

Maybe Tony was just the exception, because that was the sort of treatment he deserved. Only way to handle him properly, right? And it was effective. Tony tended not to argue with Steve lately, just to avoid potential conflict. 

He wiped a hand across his face briskly, sucking in a sharp breath as he composed himself. A million things to do, and here he was, sat crying on the floor feeling fucking sorry for himself. Steve was right; he probably needed to go to bed. Busy day tomorrow and all that. 

The thought of going up to their room made his hands shake worse, however, so after another few seconds to steel himself, he wrapped his hand around the leg of the desk and hauled himself into standing, biting back a groan. Steve really did pack a punch- and that wasn’t even one-tenth of his entire force, really. Tony had calculated it. Tony calculated everything about Steve, these days. Where he stood in the room. How many strides it would take for him to reach Tony. Power and distance per second, impact radius. Stuff like that. 

He made his way over to the worn-out couch in the corner of the room and then sat gingerly on it, careful not to jostle his midsection. He’d tape it in the morning and it’d be fine, he was sure. Had worse, after all. 

He just needed to sleep on it. He’d decide on what to do in the morning. For now, he just. He was just tired. That was all. Tired and sore, and too fuzzy to make a decision. 

It’d be fine in the morning. Things always were.

 

\--

\--

 

Visiting all the schools the next day was hard. Tony hadn’t ended up actually getting much sleep at all, and despite the fact he’d thoroughly taped his ribs, they still ached with every movement. He didn’t let on about it though, because he didn’t want to try and explain it away. Just bent down to greet all the little children and smiled at them through gritted teeth that he hoped were still non-threatening enough. 

The Avengers were a bit of a hit-or-miss when it came to children. Natasha and Thor were, generally speaking, hopeless at them, and always ended up saying things they shouldn’t in front of small people. Bruce could be okay sometimes, but only if he knew that the kids weren’t afraid of him (which they rarely were, even if he was Hulk they’d still love him). Clint was great; he just told them jokes and did magic tricks and they tended to fall in love. 

Steve... Steve was good as well. In his own sincere, honest sort of way. He always got down to their level, talked to them with his wholesome smile and told them to always try to be a hero in the everyday, because that was where the real battles were won. The kids adored him. He was very gentle with them. 

Tony was, admittedly, quite the hit too. Kids loved the suit, although he hadn’t brought it with him today, seeing as it was less of a meet-and-greet and more of a lesson in morality. Each Avenger was taking a different year-group to give them a talk, and Tony had been given the sixth-graders. That pesky age, caught between teenage years and little-kid years. 

But never say Tony couldn’t rise to the challenge. He knew how to work a crowd- even a preteen one, thank you very much.

For most of the talk, he liked to think he did pretty well. The kids laughed and interacted as Tony instilled those basic life values that they already knew but Tony had been told were mandatory to repeat. They were a good group, and all of them sharp-minded. That was one of the things Tony really loved about children: their potential. It was somewhat reassuring to listen to the people who would save the world one day, and hear them talk about how they all made a class-effort to try and save a bee that had gotten trapped in the classroom.

He may have slipped toward the end, though. Question time- dammit, the questions always got him.

It’d started out fairly mundane: “What’s the coolest thing you’ve fought?” , “how many lasers can you shoot?”. But then someone asked what to do if they saw something bad happening to someone else, and it only ended up getting deeper and more philosophical from there. Then a girl at the back of the class put her hand up and said, “what happens if someone’s doing something wrong but they’re your best friend? Do you stay friends with them?” and something inside Tony clenched and twisted painfully. 

He swallowed, blinking rapidly and checking the clock. He could just call it an end to the lesson, really, it was pretty much over. And that particular question was currently hitting a little too close to home for him to be comfortable with it.

But that was when it hit him. 

Staring at the sea of open and vulnerable faces, looking up to him for advice, it swept over him with a horribly sort of realization. If he let the lesson go, then they’d not get an answer. And if they didn’t get an answer, then they could end up getting their ass beat in a relationship too. And Tony... maybe he could take it, but these kids?

He would do anything to try and stop that from happening to them. 

“Good people can do bad things,” he started slowly, hands coming forward to rest on his knees, “but it doesn’t make them bad people. However, you’ve got to remember-- good people can turn into bad people, sometimes. Or they can just... maybe it can just be you that they start to treat badly, or someone else, or a group of people. And even.. even if you knew them when they were good, and you still think they  _could_ be good-- you have to look deep down inside you, and find the real answer to that. Is it a problem that you can talk about, and one that can be fixed? Or is it... more. You can forgive and forget, but there has to be a breaking point. A limit where you say ‘no, that’s wrong’.”

He looked down, suddenly feeling disastrously close to tears. “Never let people hurt others. Don’t let them hurt you either. Not even if you love them. It’s never,  _ever_ okay for someone to make you feel upset on purpose.”

The little girl nodded solemnly, and as the bell rang for their recess, Tony found himself mulling over his own words. Down the hall, he knew Steve would be just finishing from his own lesson, and unlike Tony, Steve was going to be sticking around for a little longer in order to give the whole school a talk. He’d offered it, happy to help out. Happy to inspire the young minds.

Tony had time. Pack his stuff, get out, maybe to one of his apartments in Europe or something. Just for a little while. He’d come back for the team, of course. He just needed... time. So did Steve, he thought. And it wouldn’t fix things. The team would ask questions and Tony would have to figure out a reason, and Steve would be upset- but he had to. He had to.

He couldn’t let Steve keep doing this to him. No matter how much he loved him, Tony just couldn’t. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t right. 

So, mind made up and resolve temporarily strengthened, he said his brisk goodbye’s and marched out of the building, head bent low and teeth biting so hard into his lip that he could taste the copper coating his tongue. He didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Not until he’d gotten into his car and sped out, back to his tower. Clint rang him, leaving a voicemail to ask why he’d left so fast. Tony ignored it. He turned his phone on mute and then threw it violently into the back seat, leaving it behind as he pulled up into his drive fifteen minutes later. The tower felt cold to him, even though he knew it was temperature regulated. He wasn’t sure at what point he’d stopped calling it home.

He cried as he shoved all of his shit into the single suitcase that he kept under his bed for business abroad. Didn’t stop for the whole hour he packed, and with each item put in, he felt a different piece of him break. Everywhere he looked in his room, bits of Steve begged him, pleaded him to stay. Pictures of them hung on the walls. Steve’s shirt that Tony wore more than him. The sticky notes Steve left on his desk sometimes.

But he choked back on his sobs and he kept packing up. Because he had to. Because whatever it was that he’d had with Steve, it was gone now. People who loved you didn’t... they didn’t do that to you.

God, it hurt. It hurt so fucking much. Tony felt like he was tearing out his own heart with every photograph on the wall that he laid his eyes on. All of this was his fault. Steve Rogers, Captain America: literally picked for the strength of his heart, the kindness in his soul- and Tony had managed to twist him into something unrecognisable. Something cruel. 

Only a Stark could do something like that. 

Hastily wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he tugged at the handle of his suitcase and then lifted it up, pulling it out of the room. Should be enough to see him through for a couple of weeks. He sent a call to the rest of the Avengers, knowing they’d have arrived back home by that point and telling them to meet him in the common room in five minutes, then quickly hurried down the stairs to meet them all. He owed it to them, at the very least, to tell them that he was leaving. Even if he didn’t have the courage to say why. The teams were in various places at the tower- Bruce down in the labs again, Natasha and Clint in the gym, Thor possibly out doing some gardening. Tony just gripped his suitcase tight and waited, knowing that his car was sat outside, ready to take him away. He wasn’t sure exactly where he’d go just yet. But he’d work it out soon enough.

The sound of a humming noise had him looking up, and when the elevator doors opened a few seconds later, he assumed it would be one of any aforementioned team members. But it wasn’t. 

“Tony?” Steve asked curiously, and Tony’s heart plunged right down through the floor as he watched the other man step out, “what are you... wait, why do you have a suitcase?”

He could feel his heart hammering under his weak ribs, and resisted the urge to step backward. How long had Tony been packing for? He’d thought he’d be able to get away before Steve came back. Maybe he’d just come home earlier than Tony had anticipated, cutting his talk short in order to get back to the tower. Maybe one of the others had told him he’d been acting weird, and Steve had come back to investigate.

Tony looked at him; the confused way he was staring between Tony’s face and the bag in his hand. Tony supposed that this was for the best anyway- he had to face the music someday. But the worst thing was, more than anything, he just wanted to drop the whole idea. Even now. Even when he knew that he couldn’t live like this, part of him didn’t even care. Part of him would take the pain, just for the chance to get Steve when he was good and happy. Part of him- a terribly, humiliatingly large part of him- thought that would be worth it.

“I’m leaving,” he said, chin jutting out defiantly as he forced his voice to stay steady and his mind to disregard all the doubts, “I told you I would if you hit me again. And you hit me again. So... yeah.”

Steve’s face fell like a tonne of bricks, quickly going from surprised to horrified to furious in under a second. “You’re not fucking leaving, Tony, don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped harshly, “put the suitcase down and just go upstairs and get some sleep-”

“No,  _fuck_ you,” Tony spat, pointing a finger at him as he felt his traitorous eyes well with tears, “you don’t... Steve, you’re a totally different person, and I don’t-  _can’t_ \- be with someone who thinks hitting their partner is fucking okay. I won’t stay. You can’t make me stay.”

Wrong thing to say. Tony knew as soon as he’d said it, because Steve laughed harshly and then marched forward. “Can’t make you?” He asked, voice laced with fury,  _“can’t make you,_  Tony?”

Steve was storming toward him in the way he marched over to an enemy, the walk he did when he was planning exactly how to tear his target apart. Tony watched him; all those hundreds of pounds of muscle and strength as it advanced toward him like a freight train going at full speed, not stopping, not slowing down. He had a face like thunder and his fists were clenched, tight and sharp and Tony could calculate how much force was underneath that muscle and sinew and bone. it was a lot- it was a hell of a lot. 

In that moment, he came to the sickening realisation that Steve was going to hurt him very, very badly. 

“Don’t fucking touch me, Steve,” he warned, feeling his voice waver as he stumbled back hurriedly, “don’t you dare, Steve, I mean it,  _stay the fuck away-”_

Steve completely ignored him, however, simply choosing to advance until he was merely a few feet away. Tony cursed and knocked his suitcase into Steve’s shins, stumbling backward at the same time- but Steve barely even noticed it, merely kicking it to the side with such force that the thing concaved in on itself,  _holy fuck_. “How fucking dare you,” Steve spat, “after everything I’ve done, you want to  _leave_? Leave the team? Your army? You fucking bastard.”

 _Army,_  Tony thought absently in confusion as Steve grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up, _That doesn’t make sense. We’re not his army._

Then Steve hurled him across the room like he weighed nothing more than a pebble, and those thoughts quickly vanished from his mind. 

“BASTARD!” Steve yelled again, more distantly this time, and oh, wow, looked like Tony had a concussion, huh? He tried to lift his head, move his limbs- but they were weak and fragile and he crumbled back to the floor a second later. His ribs were crying out. Something on his face was bleeding. 

He looked up at Steve as the man towered over him, and even then, he loved him. 

“You  _don’t_ desert,” Steve yelled, lifting his foot and slamming it down into Tony’s thigh. He felt the vibration of his own bone cracking through his body and screamed in pain, hands covering his head as he curled into himself in a pathetic attempt at cover. “You  _don’t_ leave when things are hard, you  _never_ abandon your fellow soldiers!” 

 _He was talking weird,_  Tony thought vaguely, his head foggy and pained. His leg was on fire underneath him, like an inferno running through his mangled bone. Steve bent down and grabbed Tony by the collar, fist raising and aiming for his face. The hit was brutal- right in his eye, sending white spikes of nothingness through his vision as he reeled back. He was going to black out in a second, and then Steve would beat him to death, and that would be that. No more romantic evenings in, no more wedding ring in the bottom-left drawer of his workshop desk, nothing, zilch, nada. Over. Steve was going to kill him in the communal room of their home instead.

 _How had things ended up like this_ , he thought to himself as darkness started to creep into his vision. Steve was still yelling at him but Tony couldn’t hear any more, or see. Everything just buzzed. He wondered if his heart was broken too. His brain. That certainly seemed broken. 

Steve’s fingers choked at his collar and his body moved in preparation to reel back for the final blow, and there was lots of yelling coming from different places and Tony didn’t think they were all from Steve, and suddenly there weren’t hands on his shirt any more but instead the sound of outraged yelling and static electricity, and he was falling, falling, his head hitting the-

Nothing


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S GONNA BE ANOTHER CHAPTER. BEAR THAT IN MIND

**Steve**

 

He was uncomfortable.

His hands ached. He was lying on something, but it sure as hell wasn’t a bed. Some sort of table, probably. When he pulled his eyes open, it hurt like a motherfucker. The light stung and his head throbbed. Felt like a concussion. Why would he have a concussion? He tried to sit up and move his hand to feel at his head, but he couldn’t. Something was pinning him down.  

That didn’t bode well. 

Things came back to him vaguely. He’d been… he’d been fighting something. And then someone had tackled him, and knocked him out, and- and he’d been so angry, so  _so_ angry, but he couldn’t remember what the reason for it was. He had just been furious. Moreso than he’d ever been before, which was saying something. It hurt to think too hard, but he was sure it was-

 

The universe stood still for a second as the memory in his head clicked back to place in startling, _horrifying_ clarity. 

Tony. 

 

No. No, there was no way. 

But he remembered it. He… he remembered the feeling of Tony’s body breaking underneath his hands. 

He remembered feeling  _triumphant_. 

“Steve,” someone said, somewhere in the part of his brain that wasn’t currently processing what he’d done, “Steve, can you hear me?” Natasha. It was Natasha’s voice, quiet and calm as if talking to a frightened child. 

Steve turned his head to the noise, flexing against the restraints on his hands. “Tony,” was the first thing that came out of his mouth, the word choked off and horrified, “what did I do? What did I- is he… Did I-”

“He’s stable,” Natasha was sat rigid on her chair, clothes wrinkled uncharacteristically like she’d not stopped to change for a while. How long had Steve been out _? What had he done?_   “He woke up about 48 hours ago. It’s been three days,” she told him, reading his face. Her gaze was sympathetic. “We kept you sedated while we figured out… stuff. Steve- do you know what’s been happening these last few months?”

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Every memory was there in clarity for him to see- what he’d done, to… to Tony, oh God,  _no_ , that couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t. “I don’t understand,” he said to her, face blank and slack, “why did I- what-”

“You’ve been under the influence of a foreign mind control,” she explained, leaning forward and pursing her lips, “Bruce worked it out yesterday and told us as soon as he could. There was a… a device, used by the race of aliens who’d tried to launch an attack on Earth a few weeks ago, you remember? We’re not sure of the specifics yet, but you were the one who initially pulled it out of the ship’s hull after Tony told us it would break the psychic link between the armies. We think… we think that something must have happened to link you and the device before it was shut off.” She bit her lip and looked him in the eye sombrely. “How much do you remember, Steve?”

Mind control. It hadn’t felt like mind control. He’d… he’d wanted to. Hurt Tony. 

Oh God. He was going to throw up. 

“All of it,” he croaked, the horror of everything he’d done bubbling up to the surface. He couldn’t believe it. It just felt like a nightmare. 

He’d nearly killed Tony. And he knew- he remembered, he had been going to. He’d  _wanted_ it. If Thor hadn’t rushed in and tackled him before he could throw another punch, he would have done. He would have beaten Tony to death. 

Tony, who Steve loved more than anyone else. Who had always, always trusted Steve without hesitation; who’d fallen countless times into Steve’s arms with no worry about Steve hurting him with his strength, knowing and understanding that Steve was powerful enough to do whatever he wanted, but believing that Steve never would. 

And Steve had  _beat him._  Repeatedly. 

 “This isn’t your fault,” Natasha told him urgently, “Steve, believe me, if it was, you would  _not_ be sitting here right now. You would be in an interrogation cell, readying yourself for a lengthy prison sentence. We made very, very sure that Bruce was right in his conclusion. And your brain-scans match up. It wasn’t you.”

 “It was me,” Steve hissed, “Natasha, I- I’ve been doing that to him for  _weeks_ , I’ve been hurting him, I remember-  _how could I do that_ , how could I do that to him Natasha, I have to… I need to see him, I need to-”

“No,” Natasha’s voice cut through firmly, “we haven’t finished running through tests yet, it’s not-”

“-I have to, I have to see him,” Steve could barely even register what his own mouth was saying, and the restraints were strong but he was stronger (so strong, oh God, he was fucking lethal, a monster), and he ripped his wrists away from the table with a surge of force, feeling his bone groan at the tension, but ultimately hold strong as reinforced metal snapped around him. Natasha’s voice was rising in the room but she wasn’t important, nothing was important other than Tony, lying in some hospital room because  _Steve had put him there._  Steve had heard Tony say that he was leaving and snapped, and Tony had nearly died in his attempt to run away. 

He was going to be sick, he was going to be sick, he was going -- he just had to find Tony. He had to know the damage he’d done.

But Natasha blocked the doorway, her face suddenly hard and sharp. He made to move her, but she slapped his hand away forcefully and shoved him backward. “The transmission might have broken, Steve, but we haven’t done enough tests to know whether its effects are gone for good. I’m sorry, but until we’re certain that you’re back to normal, you’re not going anywhere near him.”

Steve blanched, holding steady for a moment sagging against the wall desolately as he bent and buried his head into his hands.

Natasha was right. He couldn’t be trusted.

It had been… it’d been so long. Months. Steve had been abusing him for months, and Tony had taken all of it. He’d taken Steve hitting him. Steve insulting him. Steve- Jesus Christ, they’d been having sex almost every night, how much of that had Tony actually  _wanted_? Steve hadn’t even bothered to ask him. Hadn’t even cared. 

“Stop thinking about it,” Natasha told him, but Steve  _couldn’t_ , he couldn’t. It was there at the forefront of his mind- every memory of Tony’s scared face when they’d been arguing, every bruise he’d put on the other man’s body. Steve was so strong. Tony must have been… terrified. For weeks. Terrified of Steve. Terrified of making a wrong move. 

He remembered Tony’s eyes when he’d told Steve that if he hit him, he would leave. He remembered the despair when Steve had gone and broken his rib anyway. The numb way Tony had greeted him the next morning, quiet and defeated and nothing like the man Tony Stark usually was. 

Steve had ruined him. 

He looked at Natasha, tears starting to slip down his cheeks. “Do whatever you have to,” he whispered, “I don’t care. Just… just make sure it’s out of my head. Please.”

She nodded, and after another few seconds she slipped out of the room with the promise of sending someone else in after her quickly. He let her go, numb and ice-cold as he looked down at his hands through tear-blurred gaze. 

Monster.

 

___

 

Bruce came in later and explained things more clearly to him. Apparently the physical contact between Steve and the transmitter before it had been disconnected had forced a link between the two of them. The frequencies were designed to emphasise certain emotions and characteristics and inhibit others, making what the alien race had thought was the ‘perfect soldier’. Violence. Manipulation and emotional indifference. Lack of empathy. A strong pack mentality. Increased sex drive. Territorial behaviour. They were all things that Steve would have been experiencing too, as the last remaining person linked with that terrible machine. 

He supposed that was all true. When Tony had said he was leaving, all Steve had been thinking was that people who deserted needed to be punished. And it had… it had all felt  _right_ in his head, that was what made him feel so sick. He hadn’t thought about fighting it. Hadn’t been a mindless puppet, oblivious to what he’d done. He hadn’t been trapped inside his own mind, the rational part of him looking out as his hands moved against his own will either. He’d known. He  _remembered_. Every action had been made of his own volition. Tony had been worried about him and Steve had punched him, and he’d thought it was what Tony deserved. Tony had been acting the way he always acted on that talk-show; chatty and flirty and confident, and Steve had hit him and called him a whore and vehemently believed it was the right thing to do.

He hadn’t done much else other than think and stare at the wall while people had come into his cell and asked him questions, taken samples and monitored his brain for changes. Bruce had told him that the transmission had been severed after the ‘Cognitive Recallibration’ Thor had given him with his hammer, but they needed to make sure. For Tony’s sake. So Steve stayed put, didn’t even move off his bed, and let himself go over everything that he had done over the past few months. 

People kept telling him it wasn’t his fault, but if it wasn’t his, then who else was there to blame? 

Tony had woken up before Steve himself had, and Clint made sure to assure him that there wasn’t going to be any lasting damage, it was lucky, but Steve hadn’t caused any permanent facial injuries and his broken femur would heal with time. Clint didn’t mention any of the other bruises that littered Tony’s skin, some yellow with age, some fresh and purple. Steve knew they were there. His hands had been what had put them there. 

He wanted to fucking tear them off. Wanted, for the first time, to be pathetic and weak again. That would have kept Tony at least a little bit safer. Given him an extra fraction of autonomy. He could have pushed Steve off every time he pulled Tony in at night, could have fought back when Steve hit him. As it was, Tony had been helpless.

Steve couldn’t sleep, thinking about it. The memories plagued him like a curse, every feeling of fist hitting flesh coming back to him when he closed his eyes. He asked about Tony’s condition whenever someone came in to visit him, and they all said the same thing. He was doing okay. He was healing. Steve wondered what Tony would be thinking, sat in that hospital bed, hardly able to move without some part of him hurting. Would he think of Steve every time? Or would he be blocking it out, crushing it all down like he usually did? He had no idea. Steve longed to see him more than anything else, but at the same time, he wanted to run. Run far away, where he couldn’t put another finger on the man he loved again. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he saw Tony. Maybe it’d break him. 

He scoffed at himself in disgust. Whatever it was he was feeling, God only knew how Tony was coping. Steve didn’t deserve to think about himself. He didn’t fucking matter here. What mattered was the person lying in a hospital bed because of him; a person who had put their faith into Steve, and who Steve had broken and ruined because of that.

 

___

 

They let him out after three days of observation, once they were sure that Steve was back to normal. He left with Natasha, and she guided him quietly to a coffee shop, where she sat him down in the corner of the room and then bought two coffees for them. He remained very still, hands tucked under his legs. The coffee was left untouched. 

“Tony knows what happened with you,” she explained quietly, “he knows it wasn’t your fault.”

Steve didn’t say anything. Just looked down at the plastic cup numbly. He was conscious of every thought that passed through his mind, every flash judgement he made. Just in case they’d missed something. Just in case he was still dangerous. 

God, who was he kidding? He was always dangerous. Always. And people- fuck, people actually looked up to him for it. They admired him for it when they should be terrified.

“Steve?” She said his name and he blinked, looking up at her. He was so tired. “Are you going to see Tony?”

His heart twisted and it hurt in his chest. A billion thoughts shot through his head, each one of them carefully analysed. Something got stuck in his throat, and he swallowed it down as he looked away. “I don’t think he’d want me to,” he mumbled. Why the fuck would he? Steve had nearly killed him. He’d nearly… fuck, fuck, thinking about it made him want to throw up, to scream, to tear his own fucking hair out and lock himself away. _Steve had nearly killed him._

“He does,” she told him, and her voice was uncharacteristically gentle, “as soon as we told him what had happened, he wanted to see you. To check on you.”

Steve pursed his lips, hands flexing underneath him. He’d worked out the timelines of it all. “And before that, he woke up in a hospital thinking about how he was lucky to escape from me with his life,” he said bitterly, looking up at Natasha, “what did he say about it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters, Natasha. Did he apologise? I bet he thought it was his fault. I’d drilled it into his head every other time I fucking hit him, after all.” Steve’s jaw clenched to the point of pain, and he felt the vicious sting of tears bleed through his eyes. “Did he cry?”

Natasha was silent, and that was answer enough. 

Steve stood up and walked out of the cafe, shutting the door gently behind him and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He resisted the desperate urge to go to Tony, and instead made for the tower, intending to head for the gym. But halfway there, he stopped himself. He didn’t want to punch anything- not ever again. He didn’t want to be reminded of how strong he was, his endurance, how much fucking damage he could do. 

Instead, he took the elevator up to the roof. Stepped out into the frigid air, and walked over to the railings, where he could look out into the New York skyline. His eyes picked out the hospital where he knew Tony was. He stared at it for a long time, and then glanced down. 

Some things could kill him. It was more difficult, but he wasn’t undefeatable. If Tony had wanted to, he probably could have killed Steve easily. Should’ve done, as soon as Steve put a fucking hand on him. 

Except he hadn’t. He hadn’t done anything. 

It reminded him of his ma. Staying through the bruises, through the screaming. Joseph Rogers, while he’d been around, had been scum. But Sarah hadn’t left. Because she’d had a duty to Steve, maybe. Or maybe just because she’d still loved him, under all that. Steve had never asked. 

Like father like son, he thought bitterly, brushing a hand over his face and pushing off the tears. He wanted, so selfishly, to just know what Tony was thinking. More than anything. Wanted Tony to tell him it was okay, comfort him like he always fucking did, because he was perfect and soft and he let Steve be fragile. But just thinking it made him feel sick with shame, with disgust. Tony was in pain, traumatised, laid up in a hospital bed having previously thought that Steve had done that to him of his own volition, and then here he was, wishing that Tony could be the one to offer kindness to  _him?_ Steve was the last person on Earth who deserved it. Steve had been the perpetrator. 

Tony might have loved him a few months ago, but he sure as hell didn’t now. Not after… not after everything. He couldn’t possibly.

Steve always felt so angry whenever Tony got hurt. He snarled and growled and made sure that anyone who laid a finger on him paid for it, always. HYDRA knew it. AIM knew it. Every villain on the face of the Earth was aware that when you hurt Tony Stark, you hurt Steve. And when that happened,  _nothing_ would be able to save them from the fury of Captain America protecting the people he loved. 

But what was he supposed to do when the one who’d hurt Tony was himself? How must Tony have felt, when all that rage was turned on him?

Steve had always been careful. _Always_. Sometimes he forgot how strong he was; sometimes cup-handles broke or doorknobs came off, but that sort of thing never happened with Tony. With anyone, really. Because Steve knew, he was fucking aware of what he could do, and the last thing he’d ever wanted to be was someone that people were scared of.

Guess he didn’t really have a choice any more. It was done. All that strength, all that barely contained rage that he carried with him… he’d succumbed to it. And whether it was because of that God-forsaken alien frequency or not, at the end of the day, his hands had hurt Tony. His mouth had spat poison at him. His mind had almost killed him.

He told himself to take a breath in, and glanced back down to the steep drop again. At his hands, curled so tightly around the railings that he’d imprinted his fingers onto them without even realising. He jerked wildly and pulled them away, stepping back in despair. He couldn’t even fucking help it, it was so intrinsic in his nature he didn’t even goddamn... he just broke the things he touched, all the fucking time. And Tony… Tony was so much more fragile than he ever let on. So much more easy to shatter.

Steve sunk slowly to his haunches, locking his elbows against his knees and then pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets hard enough that his vision went spotty. 

He sobbed. 

 

___

 

 

Tony rang him the day after he got released from his holding cell. 

For about five seconds, Steve simply stared at his name blankly, completely stumped. He’d been sat curled up in the library for hours and hours, trying to concentrate on the words that he’d been reading instead of the complete exhaustion that was begging him to just take a nap, let his body rest. Any thought of doing that was shoved out of his mind as he saw the contact appear on his screen, though- like the whole universe singled down to that one word, the image of Tony’s bedhead and sleepy smile popping up on the screen. 

The phone kept ringing. 

Suddenly, his hands were shaking uncontrollably and he was terrified. Completely, totally terrified. Tony would undoubtedly be calling to end things between them. It was the only logical step after this, and Steve understood, of course he did, if he were in Tony’s shoes he probably wouldn’t even do his partner the courtesy of a phone call. But Tony was a good person, so Tony would be calling ahead- letting him know that he tried, he did, but he just can’t date a weapon of mass destruction. It’s too risky. Steve got that, he was in full agreement that Tony deserved a million times more than what Steve had done to him, but-

but he didn’t think he’d be able to take hearing Tony’s voice tell him they were over right now. Steve was pretty certain he’d just… shatter. 

All he’d ever wanted was to be good enough. 

He let the phone ring to voicemail, and then curled in miserably on himself, hating every single atom of his being for putting Tony through this. For hurting him. For abandoning him. For not even giving Tony the ability to break it all off, when any  _good_ person would. But Steve wasn’t one of those people. Steve was a fucking monster. Designed for war, programmed to kill. He was a pimped up weapon with a conscious, and Tony had paid the price for attempting to get close to him. Someone always fucking paid the price.

 _I’m so sorry,_ Steve thought, sending it out into nothingness and wishing that Tony could pick it up, _I’m so so sorry._

Of course, no one responded. 

 

___

 

He managed to hold out for eighteen hours after being released before he couldn’t stop himself any longer and picked up his coat. The night was dark out, and Steve knew it was too late, the hospital was shut now, no more visitors, but he couldn’t just sit there. At the very least, Tony deserved to be able to tell him what he’d wanted to say on the phone earlier. And Steve had to see him. He just fucking had to. It was twisting him up inside, driving him insane. He remembers how Tony had looked when Thor had dragged him away- an unconscious, bleeding mess on the floor- but he just had to see again. Had to know how much damage he had done. He couldn’t offer Tony comfort, not when he was the cause of his pain- but he could listen. He could accept what Tony was going to tell him, and then do his best to never let himself go near the other man again. God knows it’d make Tony feel at least a little bit safer. 

It was what Tony needed. Steve had been so selfish, ignoring his calls. Now he had to make up for it while he still could.

The speeding tickets piled up as he winded his way through New York on his motorbike, but he didn’t bat an eye to any of them, instead just squinting through the frigid night air and taking too-sharp turns at the last second. He got to the hospital in fourteen minutes and parked his bike uncaringly at the front entrance. Maybe it’d get towed, but that was far from his most important concern just then. There wasn’t anything else in his head, really.

He swallowed down the bile that was pushing its way up his throat and then walked into the harsh white lights and antiseptic environment of the hospital, walking the route toward Tony’s quarters. He knew where it was, Natasha had told him in case he wanted to visit. People stared at him as he rushed through the corridors, probably recognising his face, but again, he didn’t care. Not for any of them.

His momentum carried him all the way over to a mere three feet away from Tony’s door, before he finally had a vaguely coherent thought and realized with a lurch that maybe, just maybe, visiting Tony after hours when none of the team were around and Tony was still severely injured might not be the best idea. His shoes slid to an uncomfortable-sounding halt against the linoleum and he froze where he stood, hand half-outstretched for the door handle. 

Tony might see his face and be terrified. 

God, how the fuck could Steve be so  _stupid?_

Another second for him to have that thought, and he might have already opened the door and made everything worse. He tightened his fist to the point where it began to throb and then lowered it back to his side, jaw clenched and heart beating furiously as he stumbled away. He hadn’t thought it through. Hadn’t thought any of it through. Again, fucking selfish- so desperate to just see Tony that he hadn’t even thought about how that might affect the man. What the fuck was wrong with him?

On the other side of the door, Steve could hear the gentle sound of the heart monitor. Tony’s heart monitor. He was so close, right there… Steve wanted to hold him. Wanted to sob, fall into his arms, tell Tony how indescribably sorry he was. But he couldn’t. Tony probably didn’t even want to look at him now.   
The last time he had, Steve had been beating him half to death. 

He shuddered violently, leaning a hand against the wall and ducking his head. He needed to throw up- had done for days now, but he hadn’t eaten enough for anything to come up, leaving nothing more than a horrible taste in the back of his throat and a sickening lurching in his stomach.  _Go to him,_ his heart screamed, while his brain pulled him back and said  _stay away, don’t hurt him any more._

He hadn’t slept since he’d been woken up by the team. He wasn’t sure how long that had been, but he knew that his body was starting to flag. In fact, the floor was looking like a pretty decent place to just lay down for a second and sort out his thoughts. Someone had to keep watch, too. In case…

_In case of what, **you?**_

But it was too late to change his mind. Joints were already bending, limbs crumbling downward toward the juncture between floor and wall. Steve slipped quietly down, eyes shutting of their own accord as he went. In any normal circumstance when one of them ended up staying at a hospital overnight, they’d share the cot, curled in one another and gently making sure no injuries were pressed upon. In any normal circumstance, Steve would go to sleep knowing that Tony was there, safe in his arms. He’d bury his head into that the light of the arc reactor, or let Tony snuggle down into the warmth of his neck, breathing him in. They’d be with one another.

But not this time. Probably not ever again.

Steve made his peace with the floor, and was unconscious before his cheek had even touched the ground.

 

___

 

 

“-Wake up, Steve? Steve, can you hear me?” Someone tapped at his shoulder urgently, a voice that sounded familiar, Bruce-like, and he pulled his eyes open blearily, looking at the face of the concerned doctor as he leaned over him. “Are you okay?” Bruce asked in concern, “what happened?”

Steve blinked. He wasn’t sure where he was or how long it had been- or at least, not until he looked outside at the early morning sunlight and then heard someone else’s voice start up faintly from a few feet away on the other side of a wall. 

 _“What?_  He’s collapsed outside my fucking… Jesus Christ, is he okay? Is he injured? How long has he been out there, Clint, what the fuck, bring him in right now-”

Steve lurched up, looking at Bruce with wide, humiliated eyes. “Sorry,” he choked, “I shouldn’t be here, I just… I wanted to see him so, so badly but I  _can’t_ , I can’t, I shouldn’t have, I’m-”

“Steve,” Bruce said gently, taking Steve’s shoulders into his hands and squeezing, “you’re allowed to be here. Tony’s been wanting to see you for days.”

Steve could hear that from the incessant ‘help me up’s he was commanding toward Clint in the room with him. He looked down at his hands and pushed them deep into the pockets of his hoodie. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the same phrase he must have said a thousand times before by that point, “I don’t know what to do.”

Bruce bit his lip and looked away, and Steve knew what that meant. He didn’t know what Steve should do either. “You should just… go in and see him, for now,” he said quietly, “but prepare yourself, okay? Steve, we all know it wasn’t your fault, but… it doesn’t look good. He’s been through a lot.”

“I know he has,” Steve said, voice dead as he looked down at the floor, “I remember.”

Bruce didn’t say anything again. The silence was loud, painful. It hadn’t been like this with any of the team before. But now, he supposed- now they knew what he could do. What he was capable of. Now there was an element of fear in their eyes that hadn’t been there before.

As there should be. Steve wouldn’t expect anything less.

“Can you wait a few minutes for Thor to get here?” Bruce asked, and Steve glanced up at him, “I know that the connection’s been broken—I just – I can’t take any chances, Steve. We already failed to help him the first time around. I… I can’t let it happen again.” Bruce’s face was tight and the guilt in his expression was obvious- Steve supposed they were all blaming themselves too, to some extent. For not noticing. For letting the signs slip under their radars, because they were _so damn convinced_ that Steve would never do it. Not in a million years.

If Steve were a better man, they might have even been right to think that way.

In the other room, he could hear Tony arguing with Clint, his voice frantic and angry. He was trying to get out of bed, and Clint wasn’t letting him. “Clint, dammit, he’s out there and he needs me! Tell him to come here or let me go out, but either way, I have to- I have to see him.”

Of course Tony wanted to help. Of course he did. Barely even able to walk, and it was the person who’d put him in that state that he was more worried about than himself. That was… that was the most Tony Stark thing Steve had ever heard. He sat on the floor like while Bruce watched over him, just listening to the sound of Tony’s voice through the thin walls. His sounded desperate, voice cracking as he asked Clint to go get Steve again.

Steve looked up at Bruce. “Does he blame himself?” He whispered, terrified of the answer.

But Bruce didn’t need to speak for Steve to know. It was written all over his face, buried underneath the sadness in his eyes.

Steve choked. He thought of every argument they’d had over the past month, where Steve had been furious enough for Tony to give in, to think that he must have been in the wrong for Steve to be so angry with him. Now, it was just easy for him to come to the same conclusion: this was his fault.

“I can’t do this,” Steve pursed his lips and stumbled to his feet with a shake of his head, “I’m sorry, I can’t – it’s all my fault—”

“It’s not your fault, Steve.”

For a second, Steve opened his mouth to scream at him. He wanted to. He wanted to scream that _of course_ it was his fucking fault, it was all him. But if he raised his voice, Tony would hear him, and if Tony heard him shouting, God only knew how he’d react. Steve didn’t want to find out.

He shut his mouth and simply smiled at Bruce instead, a broken, bitter little thing. Then he looked back at the door that he knew Tony was behind, his feet tingling with the urge to stand up and see him. Give him what he was asking for. He sounded so upset. Steve would do anything to make him happier- anything at all.

But he couldn’t. So he waited for Thor instead, listening to Tony try and call him from the other room. He was frustrated, angry, cursing a blue streak when Steve didn’t respond, but Steve held his ground. Waited another 74 seconds for Thor to walk around the corner before throwing himself onto his feet and then lurching over to the door, completely beside himself with the need to just _see him._

His fingers curled around the door handle and he pushed it open gently, hearing Thor step close to his side. Then he slipped into the room and, for the first time since it’d happened, Steve looked at Tony. At the man he loved more than anyone and anything else in the whole world.

His face was black and blue.

The whole of his left side was a mess. His eye swollen shut, butterfly stitches spanning from jaw to temple. His nose was puffy, looked like it had been broken, and his bottom lip was painfully split open. Wherever Steve looked, there was an injury. Whatever oxygen he’d been managing to take in got stuck in his throat as he stared at Tony, gobsmacked.

Steve had done that.

“Clint, Thor, get out,” Tony told them bluntly, “now.”

Clint stepped back, but Thor hesitated, looking over at Steve. “I-“

“Get out,” Tony told him again, hard and sharp. “ _Now_ , Thor.”

Thor lingered for another second before putting a hand on Steve’s arm. “I will be outside,” he said, and Steve wasn’t sure whether it was a threat or a promise.

He couldn’t breathe.

The door clicked shut behind him and the room fell into silence, nothing but the steady thump of Tony’s heart sounding off in the little hospital room. Steve couldn’t take his eyes off the bruises. The way Tony’s leg was suspended in the air, casted and bound. Femurs didn’t break easily. Strongest bone in the body, and Steve had crushed it like it was glass under his foot. He remembered the sound it had made when it had broken.

“It wasn’t your fault,” was the first thing that Tony said, looking at him intently, “Steve, I know what you’re thinking-“

“How are you… how are you feeling,” Steve asked, his voice hoarse. He refused to acknowledge what Tony had said. None of this, here, was about how he was feeling. It was about Tony. “Are you. Are you doing okay?”

Tony didn’t speak for a moment, but then he smiled lopsidedly. “I’ve seen better days, Winghead,” he murmured, “but I’ll live.”

 _You almost didn’t._ Steve ripped his eyes away from Tony’s face, suddenly feeling a wave of nausea sweep over him. He forced it down, unwilling to make Tony worry about him further. He had no idea what to say. What to do. None of this was right- it was a horrible dream that he couldn’t escape from. His hands were shaking, and he pushed them behind his back and clenched them tight, until it hurt.

“Steve,” Tony said again, his voice soft, “come here.”

He shook his head. No, no, he couldn’t. “I—I have an apartment,” he croaked, “in Washington. I’ll take my stuff, be out of your hair. It’s… you don’t have to worry.”

Tony just blinked at him, the weary smile slipping off his face. “What,” he asked, “Steve, what do you… what are you saying?”

His nails dug into his palms. “I’m… I can’t take back what I did, but I- I can help you feel safer from now on. It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t… I didn’t answer your call sooner, I was selfish, I didn’t want—but I promise, I promise, you won’t ever have to see me again, Tony. Not from here on in.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Tony asked, his voice numb as he stared at Steve. Whatever colour that had been in his cheeks was quickly draining from it as he attempted to sit up straighter in his bed. “Steve, no, please. Please don’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I let this happen, I never meant… please just don’t go. Not now, come on. I’ll be better, I swear, I’ll… I’ll pay more attention, I won’t be so fucking stupid-“

“Tony, stop,” Steve told him, and Tony did. Immediately.

It was all so wrong.

“None of this… none of it was your fault,” he whispered, forcing down the heat behind his eyes. “Tony, you were… I abused you for weeks.  I hurt you-“

“It’s okay,” Tony began instantly, “Steve, it’s fine, I’m over it already, it’s just like any other fight-“

“No it’s not!” Steve hissed, and Tony’s mouth snapped shut again. Steve swallowed, stepped further back. “It’s not,” he whispered, his voice tiny, “it will never, ever be like any other fight. Because this was me, and you trusted me, and I-“

“I still do,” Tony told him, “I still trust you, Steve.”

Steve looked at him, and he could see… he could see from the way Tony had gone tense just by the way Steve had snapped at him, the way his hand was bunched into the sheet by his side, that Tony was lying. He didn’t trust Steve. Not really.

A part of Steve shattered and fell to the ground, broken beyond repair.

“I should go,” he whispered, unwilling to bring his voice above that tone. Scared to.

But Tony shook his head, eyes pleading. “Please don’t,” he said, “Steve, we need to… we have to work through this, okay. We _have to._ It’s us. We can get through anything.”

Steve just looked up, mouth pursed into a painfully thin line. He wanted to hit something, but the thought just horrified him now. It wasn’t a release that would give him any pleasure at all. He felt like if he punched anything ever again, he would think of this. Of Tony, in his hospital bed, black and blue and branded by Steve’s hands.

“How are we supposed to get through _this?”_ He asked, and Tony’s hands got tighter against the sheets, shaking and desperate. Steve wanted to tell him to stop holding them so tight, it’d hurt him. But he didn’t want to tell Tony to do anything, not ever again. Because then Tony might listen to him, and all Steve would ever wonder would be ‘does he want to do this, or is he simply too scared to say no?’

“I don’t know,” Tony said, voice wavering, “but for now, just… stay here. Please. That’s all I’m asking. Just stay with me.”

Steve had no idea why Tony would even want that. How he could stand to have Steve near him after everything was a complete mystery- Steve neither belonged nor deserved to be close to him right now. But Tony didn’t seem to think that. Tony, for whatever goddamn reason, was still trying to forgive him.

Steve was selfish and tired enough to take it. Desperately, more than anything else in the world, Steve yearned to just touch him. Trace his fingertips across each mark on his face, kiss them better, say he was so, so, _so_ sorry. There were a billion words on his tongue, but none of them were enough. None of them ever could be.

“I’ll stay,” he breathed in the end, “if you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“I’m sure,” Tony told him firmly- and so Steve walked very slowly over to the little plastic chair a few feet away from the hospital bed, and he shrunk down into it, keeping his hands tucked firmly under his thighs. He looked at the floor, and Tony looked at him. He heard the other man open his mouth, try and say something undoubtedly casual and blasé, but then decide against it and shut it once more with a clack.

They sat in silence.

 

___

 

Three days, and Steve felt like he was going insane.

Tony was talking too much, trying to fill the horrible void between them with words about anything and everything he could think of. Steve wasn’t talking enough, too busy thinking over every word he wanted to say and wondering how Tony would take it. He felt the rest of the team’s eyes on them constantly- they couldn’t help it and they were doing it to try and make up for all that they’d missed before, but every time Steve saw them watching him he just wanted to throw up again. He hadn’t slept in days, and he knew that Tony hadn’t either. Whether that was because Steve was there, or just because he couldn’t, Steve didn’t know. But every time he suggested he leave, Tony panicked and began to apologize again, and it shattered Steve’s resolve every single time. He couldn’t leave knowing Tony blamed himself for this. He just couldn’t.

It was a mess. Everything was just… a mess.

Steve tried to broach the subject of what had happened a few times, if only to clear the stifling weight in the room between them, but Tony never wanted to talk about it, and Steve refused to push him. So instead, they sat, and Tony just rambled, and Steve just tried his best to smile. They hadn’t touched one another since Steve had arrived in the hospital, and Steve felt cold down to his very bones. Most days, there was at least one Avenger in the room with him too. Steve had learned their rota: Natasha, Clint, Thor, Bruce. They came in and pretended as if everything was normal, but Steve didn’t fail to notice the way Natasha watched his hands. The way Thor tensed up every time Steve stood up.

Clint was the only one to acknowledge any of it all. Steve wasn’t stupid; he knew that Clint had a knife stashed up his sleeve, in the same way that Natasha had the day before. He knew Steve knew, too, because as soon as he clocked Steve looking at it, he sighed. It was late into the night, and Tony was sleeping peacefully in the bed in front of them. “I know this is horrible,” Clint told him quietly, “I know this is hurting you. Watching us do this. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like.”

Steve blinked, swallowing down the lump in his throat as Clint rested a hand gently against his shoulder. “I’m glad you are,” he said, making sure his voice was firm, “there’s—I was told by the doctors, straight after getting the serum, that, uh, I have higher blood pressure than normal people, so if you hit an artery, it’ll kill me faster. Don’t bother engaging in hand-to-hand. You just gotta find a way to get me while my back’s turned and—” he licked his lips and gestured to the side of his neck where his jugular lay, looking at Clint’s horrified expression and wincing. “Just in case,” he whispered with a small nod.

Clint was frozen in place for a minute, before he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Don’t say shit like that, Steve,” he responded, “I don’t wanna hear that.”

“It’s not about what we want,” Steve told him, “it’s about what we have to do. About what I’m _asking_ you to do, if ever this… if ever I hurt him again.” He stared at Clint seriously, his jaw tight. “I can’t let him go through this again.”

“Steve…” Clint sighed heavily, “this is just our life, man. It’s fucked up. But I can’t promise you that I’m gonna fucking kill if you hurt him again, that’s not just something you can ask me to do. You’re not thinking straight right now, okay, but it’s going to get better. Just give it time to heal.”

Steve stared miserably over to the bed, where Tony’s hand waited for him enticingly. Any other time, and Steve wouldn’t have even had to think about taking it, holding on tight and sleeping with their fingers entwined on the bed. But everything was different now. Steve was scared of putting hands on him. And God, how fucked up was that? Three years into a relationship with the man he loved above all else, and Steve didn’t even trust himself to touch him.

“Look, I’m calling it a night,” Clint said, after Steve didn’t respond to his previous statement. He got to his feet quietly and looked between Steve and Tony, a pained expression in his eyes. “You look after one another, ‘kay?” He said, gently punching Steve’s shoulder. “You need eachother.”

Steve said nothing, but nodded once as Clint left the room with a tight smile and a stifled yawn. He checked his watch: 1 in the morning. It should be a point where Steve was at least feeling a little bit tired, but he wasn’t. Hadn’t done in days, really. He can’t have gotten more than two hours of sleep over the past week, if he thought about it. But he didn’t want to, either. In all honesty, he was completely terrified of what’s he’d see if he did. The memories that would rush back in like a tidal wave that he couldn’t escape from. At least when he was awake, he knew that Tony was still alive.

So he sat. He let himself watch Tony breathe, traced all the yellowing bruises that marred his face. The usual mantras started back up in his head, the same way they always did _: you don’t deserve him. You nearly killed him. You’re just like all the rest. He trusted you. You broke him._

The worst part was that this time, he knew that all of them were true _._

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Tony stirred. He was usually restless in his sleep, moreso now than ever, but Steve was so caught up in his own head he didn’t really register Tony was awake until he heard the tentative “Steve?” Get whispered into the room. He blinked, turning away from the wall he was boring holes into, and tried to smile.

“Hey,” he whispered back, “you okay?”

Tony was looking at him, a pained expression on his face. “I’m fine,” he said croakily, sitting up a little bit, before cocking his head and adding, “are _you?”_ Onto the end.

Steve felt his smile stick a little. Of course he was fine, he wasn’t the one lying in a hospital bed. Nothing had happened to _him_. Tony didn’t want to know what he was thinking; it was a goddamned mess up in there, and not one that he particularly wanted to share-

“Why did you stay?” He found his mouth blurting before his brain could stop him, and he watched as Tony’s face fell, turned into something that reminded Steve horribly of shame as he looked away, down at his lap. He wanted to take it back as soon as he’d said it- Tony didn’t need that, not now. But it was already out there, the big question that had been plaguing Steve’s mind ever since he’d come out of his stupid trance. "Why...after all that I did. Why didn't you just walk away?"

“Lot of reasons,” Tony mumbled, fingers fiddling with the bedsheets. He didn’t look Steve in the eye. “Because I’m a fucking idiot? Because I’m pathetic and I thought it was the best I was going to be able to get? I mean, shit, if Captain America can’t even bear to be with me without hitting me a few times, then it wasn’t exactly like I was gonna get much better from anyone else, right?” He blinked rapidly and then looked up at Steve, his jaw tight. Steve could see the humiliation in his eyes- and this was the first time Tony had even spoken more than just three words about it at all, but Steve hadn’t realized quite how damning it would be for him to hear him actually say what they both already knew.

Tony shrugged, looking away again. “I thought you were worth it,” he admitted, voice quiet and uneven. “I guess… that was it, at the end of the day. You were worth it.”

Steve felt his nails puncture his own skin. He hated himself so viscerally in that moment that he wasn’t even sure what to do with all the emotion sat on his chest. He wished he could scream. Wished that he could go to a gym and punch something until his hands bled and skin tore. But he couldn’t, because he’d spent months hurting Tony, and Tony had stayed because _he’d thought Steve was fucking worth it,_ and now these were the consequences of his actions. This was the aftermath of everything that he’d done

Tony never deserved to feel the way he was. But Steve? God, Steve deserved every moment.

“I have to go,” he mumbled, because it was too much. He didn’t have the right to break in front of Tony, but he couldn’t keep everything in any longer. He was bubbling over, torn apart from the inside out, God, _this was all his fault-_

“Steve,” Tony began, voice choked off and desperate, “Steve, I’m sorry, I didn’t… please just stay, that wasn’t me blaming you, I didn’t mean it like that-“

“I know,” Steve said, and he could feel the burn behind his eyes as he stood up jerkily, knew that if he stayed any longer Tony was going to see him fall apart, and he couldn’t put that on him, not now, “I know, it’s okay. I just need a moment. I’m sorry. I love you. This isn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

He heard Tony say something else, but he’d already turned and walked out of the door, shutting it gently behind him. He walked on, unsure of where he was headed- the hospital was quiet on these corridors, empty aside from the occasional nurse hurrying by. Steve kept going, face tight with the effort of holding everything back, and after ten seconds or so he broke off into a small run, hands extending and reaching out for the door of the men’s room at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open, too rough and too fast, because he felt the wood groan and splinter under his force. It made him jerk his hands away, stumbling into the bathroom and going backward until his back hit the cold tiles of the opposing wall. He looked on, horrified at the door.

Everything he touched. Everything, even when he didn’t mean to… it was all at risk.

His legs buckled as he slipped and fell to the floor. It smelled like cleaning fluid and the dust bunnies clung to his clothes as he slumped against the surfaces.

_You were worth it._

Tony had stayed- put himself in danger day after day, gone through Steve yelling and insulting and hurting him- because he’d thought Steve was worth it. He couldn’t pinpoint quite why that felt so utterly soul-crushing, but it did. It did.

He ducked his head and pushed his knees up to his chest, feeling his face crumble against his hands. He’d tried not to let himself do this, tried to focus on Tony as much as he could, but it was too much. He was too weak. Everything was ruined and it was his fault, and he knew, he knew that even if they tried to fix this, the likelihood was that they just couldn’t. Because Tony had already been through so much, he’d already done this before with other people he’d been in relationships with, and Steve was now just another person on that fucking list.

Steve was so, _so_ strong. It was a miracle that Tony had even fucking survived him.

He looked back up, at the stupid bolster-wood bathroom door, now cracked through the middle.

He broke alongside it.

 

 

**Tony**

 

 

 

By the time he’d spent a week in hospital, Tony was done.

The bruising was something he could handle at home, the broken rib was an injury he received pretty much every month, and the leg… well, he might need a crutch for a while, but that was nothing he couldn’t handle. He just wanted to get the fuck out. Go home. Back to normal. If he was in the tower, things would be… easier. Right now, Tony felt as if everyone was walking on eggshells around him and he could barely fucking stand it. The whole team had come in trying to give some variation of an apology that Tony didn’t goddamn need- it was hardly their fault that Steve got possessed by some alien doohickie, after all. Tony was the one who’d missed all the signs. Tony was the one who’d been so fucking caught up in feeling sorry for himself that he hadn’t stopped to think about _why_ Steve had been doing what he had.

He knew he’d been an idiot. The whole event was just fucking humiliating, and he just… he wanted to go home and fucking forget about it. That was all. Once they were home, Steve would stop being so flighty. The team would stop looking so goddamn guilty all the fucking time, and everything could just be _normal._

Until then, he had to deal with the doctors quietly suggesting that he see a therapist whenever Steve was out of the room. Nurse Linda was a lovely lady, and Tony knew that she was only trying to help, but it really, really fucking didn’t. He didn’t need help because as it turns out, Steve hadn’t actually been abusing him. Steve had just been possessed. Such was the nature of their damned lives, he figured. Maybe if Steve had actually turned out to be an abusive piece of shit, Tony could’ve considered the therapy. But he wasn’t, and Tony could see that it was quite clearly tearing Steve up to see Tony this way, so he just wished they’d stop goddamn asking about it.

Everything was okay. Steve was Steve again, and any lingering second’s worth of fear Tony was still harbouring whenever the other man walked into a room alone with him was going to go away once they _just went home._ It was simply his stupid brain reacting to the atmosphere around him, making him on edge. Tense.

He wished he’d just fucking worked it out. Wished he hadn’t been so pathetic over the whole thing- oh, poor little Tony, Steve’s hitting you, it must be because that’s just what you deserve, huh? He hadn’t even Goddamn considered the fact that Steve would never touch him like that in a million fucking years. No, no, it’d been all about _Tony_.

He was so stupid. And now everything was at risk of falling apart because of it.

Steve hadn’t touched him. Not once, since he’d come back. Tony had held out his hand, asked Steve to come lie on the bed with him when he was going to sleep like they always did, but Steve hadn’t once said yes. He’d made a flimsy excuse, given Tony a weak smile and just remained exactly where he was, hands shoved into his pockets or stuffed under his legs. He was pale and washed out, disturbingly fragile. When they’d first found out what was actually going on,  Tony had realised that it was the stupid transmission that had been making Steve look so unwell. It messed with his brain chemistry, and that was bound to affect him in a detrimental way. Another thing that Tony had been remiss about. Steve had been slowly goddamn wasting away, and all Tony had been thinking about was himself.

He tried apologizing for it, but Steve wouldn’t hear it. “It’s not your fault, Tony,” he’d always say, in a voice so much quieter and more subdued than the way Steve normally spoke, and that would be that. Tony didn’t want to push, in case Steve got angry with him. Not that he was… he wasn’t _scared_ of it any more, he just didn’t want to deal with it, that was all. He couldn’t afford to argue with Steve just then, when he knew that it was only a single thread that was still connecting Steve to him in the first place. Every time Tony looked at him, it was clear Steve wanted to run, and Tony couldn’t lose him over this. Not now. They’d gotten through the worst part, and now they just needed to stick with it until they came out the other side.

They’d work things out. They always did.

He managed to finally get the hospital to cave and let him out after eight days of being signed in. The team argued and tried to make him stay longer, but Tony wasn’t having any of it. He was sick of just lying there, thinking of everything he hadn’t done. Thinking of the fact that the whole team, himself included, was aware that if he’d just spoken up sooner and not been such a pathetic idiot, this could all have been avoided. In hindsight, he realised he should have flagged it the moment that Steve started to get rough. He could have told Bruce when the man had seen his cheek, and they could have sorted it out. Come to a conclusion. But… but he’d been too scared of what they’d say, too afraid they wouldn’t believe him. He’d let both himself and Steve suffer because of his own cowardice, and _Goddamn_ did he hate himself for that.

It never changed. The same thing, over and over and over. Tony got into these shitty situations, and whatever he chose to do, it was always the wrong decision. Now Steve and the rest of the team could barely even look him in the eye, and all Tony could think was _‘they know it’s my fault’._

 

That was why, as soon as he got back home, he went straight into the workshop and put it into blackout mode. It’d been a week of seeing the way they looked at him- now he just wanted some privacy. Time to refocus. It hadn’t been as big of a deal as Tony had previously thought- instead, it was just like any other stupid battle they had to deal with as Avengers. And so that meant Tony would be able to bounce back from this soon enough.

He realised his desk was still turned around, facing the workshop entrance instead of the opposing wall. He doesn’t remember when he did that- at some point after Steve had walked in and punched him, maybe. He should turn it back around.

But maybe it was a good idea. Just to see threats coming through. Any threats, not… not just Steve. _Not_ that he was a threat, obviously, that hadn’t been what he’d…

He just needed to work on something.

The wheelchair he was in was fucking irritating and meant he was restricted to only really working with small bits of machinery and little projects, but the Doctors had said he’d be able to move to crutches soon, which would make everything a lot easier. He had a few projects that he could work on despite that though, so he quickly delved into them, trying to keep his mind focused.

He worked for six hours straight, and Steve didn’t come down to see him once.

It was Natasha who eventually knocked at the workshop door. Tony jumped wildly, the fiddly bits he’d been trying to fit together spilling out of his hands and clattering onto the desk with a loud noise that made him wince. His leg was starting to ache- probably because he hadn’t been taking the meds that the doctors had prescribed to him, but whatever. He pressed the entry button on his desk and let the doors slide open, watching her as she walked in. “Hey, Nat.”

“You should be resting,” she said immediately. No beating around the bush then. Okay.

“I should be doing a lot of things,” he said, before throwing the new Widow’s Bite over to her. She caught it on reflex and glanced down. “New and improved model. Thank me later.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him. But it was strained. Tony could tell. “How’re you adjusting,” she said as she walked further in and looked at his leg, stuck out awkwardly in front of him. “Bet that’s gonna be annoying.”

“You could say that. But I’m fine. I’m managing. Probably gonna call it a night soon though, I’m fucking exhausted and Steve’ll yell if I stay up too late.” He huffed and consciously relaxed his hands, but when he looked up at Natasha her face was just more strained. Like the mention of Steve alone was causing her discomfort. Tony resisted the urge to glare. “You good, Romanov?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, “are you?”

He bristled. “I’m fine," he bit out with a roll of his eyes, "I’m just tired of waiting for you to all stop looking at me like I’ve been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Kind of puts a downer on my mood.”

She sighed, looking away with an apologetic face. “Sorry,” she muttered, “I don’t mean to… we’re just-“

“waiting for me to have my inevitable breakdown over this?” Tony asked sharply, wishing he could stand up, “waiting to see how long it takes for me to start crying like a fucking baby? Jesus, Natasha, I thought you rated me more highly than that—”

“Don’t you _dare_ do that to yourself,” Natasha hissed, raising a finger and pointing at him, her eyes furious, “don’t you dare try and… trivialise this, okay Tony, we’re not stupid, none of us. We know what this did. To you, to him. It matters.”

“No it fucking doesn’t,” he snapped, and yeah, he really wished he didn’t have the fucking wheelchair right now because it was hard to look intimidating when you were half the other person’s height. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m fucking fine. Look, see?”

“You can’t even walk, Tony.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Not from Steve.”

“That’s fucking irrelevant,” Tony snarled, fists clenching, _why couldn’t she just let it drop_ \- she must think him so Goddamn weak, they all must, “he hit me because he was mindfucked, I survived, we’re moving on now. That’s… that’s _all_ there is to this, just like any other battle we have. Just like when Clint tried to kill you after getting possessed by Loki, just like how Thor nearly went crazy after Amara magicked the shit outta him- this is just our lives _and I want to forget about it!”_

She remained quiet after he was finished, and it was only when the heavy silence enveloped the room that he realised he’d been shouting. His breath was coming in heavy and he could feel his heart racing, a panic response to the yelling in the room. He’d never used to shake when he’d argued with people before.

Natasha’s face was blank, but her eyes flashed. There was sadness there. “You may want to, and I respect that,” she murmured, “but no one else can. This happened, Tony. And whether you like it or not, it was a big deal.”

“Well, it’s lucky that I’ve never given a shit about important stuff everyone else seems to care so much about then, huh?” Tony said airily, spinning around in his chair and turning his back on her. “If you can kindly fuck off now, that’d be great. I appreciate the check-in, but I’m doing fine.”

She didn’t move, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn’t like people not listening to him in his workshop.

“I just-“ Natasha began, voice uncharacteristically subdued as she briefly cut herself off. Tony spared a glance back around at her, and saw the way her lips were tightly pursed. She looked right at him, solemn and downright _helpless_ for a second. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? We could have… helped.”

Yeah, there it was. The kicker. He knew, of course, that the way he’d handled the entire thing had been pathetic. It just… it still felt like a stab in the chest to realise the others thought so too. That they knew there were a hundred things he could have done, but never did. He licked his lips and turned back around, ducking his head. On the first day, when he’d just woken up, the whole team had watched as he’d cried nonstop for fucking hours, but he hadn’t shed a tear since he’d found out what had really been going on, and he didn’t intend to start again now. Because it wasn’t worth crying about, not any more. Hell, it hadn’t been worth crying over to _that_ extent when he’d actually believed Steve had put him in hospital of his own volition, really. Abuse, like everything else, was just another part of life, and he should have learned how to handle it better by that point. But Tony was just—weak. He cried too easily, always had done, no matter how many times his father had tried to ‘train it out of him’.   
And maybe it was the fact that it had been Steve, of all people, that had just made Tony break all the more severely.

But anyway, he was getting carried away. Point was, Tony hadn’t cried since waking up in hospital, and he damn well wasn’t going to do it now, over some stupid argument with Natasha Romanov.

“If I had,” he muttered, picking his screwdriver back up, “if I’d gone to you, and there hadn’t been any aliens or hypnosis or—or whatever… would you have believed me?”

“But there _was_ alien hypnosis, Tony, that’s where we could’ve—”

“Not in my head there wasn’t,” Tony said bitterly, “I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about him, hitting me for no other fucking reason than because he thought I deserved it, and you not believing me if I told you. That was… that wasn’t something I wanted to have to cope with, and so I just. Didn’t.”

Behind him, he could feel her unnatural stillness. He realised that he didn’t want a response to what he’d said. He was well aware of how dumb it sounded, and certainly didn’t need her to confirm that. “Leave,” he said simply, “now, please, thank you.”

“Tony—”

_“LEAVE!”_

It took three seconds, but eventually he heard the doors whoosh shut behind her with a soft and almost sad-sounding click. The room fell back into silence. With a wavering breath out, Tony screwed his eyes tight shut and bit his lip, wondering when the Goddamn hell the shaking in his hands was going to stop.

 

___

 

 

 

Hit after hit after hit, Tony was crying and he was so afraid, he could feel it settle right under his heart, pure and visceral as he pleaded for Steve to stop, but he didn't, he kept going until everything went blurry and Tony woke up, head lurching off the desk with a painful snap.

He wheezed, looking around the empty room. He could feel the tears on his face. Fucking pathetic.

He shook his head and wiped his nose and got back to work with shaking hands.

 

 

___

 

 

Steve didn’t come and tell him off for staying up too long. In fact, Tony didn’t see him for the entire time that he was down in the shop. Which was weird- usually Steve never left his side after accidents. Tony had just… assumed it would be the same for this one.

Apparently, though, this one was going to take some more time to fix properly.

Tony sighed, shutting down the holoscreens and then rolling back out of the workshop. The doctors had ‘strongly recommended’ staying in the wheelchair for at least a few weeks, but honestly, Tony couldn’t stand the thing, and figured it would take about two more days for him to just give it up entirely and start using the crutches. Until then, though, he was resigned to wheeling his way around the tower. It took double the time for him to make his way up to his and Steve’s room than it would have done without the stupid wheelchair, but he supposed that would’ve been the same with a crutch as well. Either way, it sucked. He hated these sorts of injuries- the ones that stuck around the worst possible ways.

The room was quiet when Tony managed to get in. Which was weird, because Steve would usually be in bed by that time in the night. He looked over to the clock- 3:15am. Definitely too late for Steve to still be awake. There was a sinking feeling in his gut as he looked up. “JARVIS, where’s Steve?”

“Currently asleep in the guest bedroom, Sir.”

“He—what? Why?”

“I… assume it is something to do with him being unsure of the nature or boundaries within your relationship, after everything that happened.”

Tony made a noise. “That’s fucking stupid. Is he awake?”

“It appears so,” JARVIS responded, sounding weary, “he has been conscious for 78 hours, by my count.”

He swallowed. Goddamn it, Steve. “Well tell him to come to bed- real bed. I… uh, I probably need some help, with the leg and all, you know.” He looked down at the dumb chair and the dumb leg with a clenched jaw, wishing it could just fucking go away. But it wouldn’t, and he needed to get into his pajamas and brush his teeth and he couldn’t do that without someone to help him. He wanted it to be Steve… it was selfish of him, but he just wanted the other man to hold him again. It’d been so long since Steve- real Steve, not… not the other version of him, had held Tony.

It took less than a minute for Steve to arrive. He knocked on the door four times, said his name like Tony didn’t know who it was, and then asked if he could come in like it wasn’t his fucking room too. Tony blinked rapidly at the coldness spreading through him- it felt like they’d just gone back to the beginning again, before they’d fallen in love, before they’d even _liked_ one another. All wary knocking and careful distances, as if Steve could hardly even stand to be around Tony, and Jesus Christ _Tony was aware_ that he’d fucked up big time, he _knew_ that Steve probably blamed him for letting it get that far, but Tony just—

He just wanted things back the way they were.

“It’s your room, Steve,” Tony snapped, “don’t need to knock.”

The other man slipped in quietly, looking at Tony nervously. “Sorry,” he said, and Christ, he wasn’t even goddamn mind-whammied anymore and yet he looked more ill than ever, unshaven and gaunt, heavy bags under watery eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t think—what do you need me for?”

Tony stared at him, not knowing what to say for a moment. He looked down, clearing his throat. “I’d like to get into something comfier,” he declared casually, glancing up to see how Steve reacted.

The man just swallowed, and then gave a small nod. “Yeah, of course, I’ve got you,” he murmured, stepping forward and moving slowly around the bed to Tony’s pillow where he knew Tony kept his pajamas. Getting changed with broken bones was always an awkward process, but this time around was just ten times worse. Mostly because Steve knelt down and went to take his foot and undo his laces, but froze up about an inch away from Tony’s skin, seemingly backing out of the action. He looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

What, did he think Tony was going to flinch or something? Fucking hell. “Just take the fucking shoe off, Steve. Please.”

Steve winced. “Yeah, sorry, I just… yeah.”

So he took Tony’s foot, very, very gently, and then undid his shoe. The entire time, there was a heavy silence. Tony felt close to tears again, despite the fact neither of them had said a single nasty word to one another. Maybe that was the problem.

Steve did everything Tony needed of him. Undressed him, grabbed his toothbrush from the shelf, helped him into bed. All of it in silence. All of it with minimal eye contact. Steve’ smiles were real, but they were the ones he made when he was close to breaking point, and it sent a flare of worry up Tony’s spine. He opened his mouth to try and ask, before shutting it abruptly. Steve probably wouldn’t want him to interfere. He got mad when Tony got nosy about that stuff, Tony knew from experience. Which was… not really a valid reason for him to not ask, obviously- said ‘experience’ had been with a Steve that wasn’t even really Steve- but whenever he tried to just get out the _‘Sweetheart, are you okay?’,_ something at the back of his throat stopped the words from coming out. It felt a little bit like fear, but that wasn’t something he wanted to think about at all, so he shoved it down and just focused on trying to be more gentle with the way he spoke after that. After all, Tony had been the one who’d fucked this all up. Steve had been the one who’d suffered because of it.

It took him twenty minutes until he was finally ready to get into bed. Steve lifted him, gentle and slow, out of the wheelchair and into the bed as if he didn’t weigh a thing, and then carefully plumped his pillows and tucked the sheets over him. Tony smiled at the action, and Steve smiled back, and for a single second things were almost normal.

And then Steve straightened up and stepped back, over in the direction of the door. Tony’s face fell right back down again. “Where are you—you’re not going, are you?”

Steve once more took on the expression of a startled animal. “I just thought,” he began, voice weak, “maybe we should… just try and ease back into it—”

“I don’t want to do that,” Tony said instantly, looking at him from the bed, “this is… this is your room too, Steve. Come sleep in it. With me. Please. You look—” _Ill, sick, upset, I want to help you, I want to try and make this_ _better,_ “—tired.”

Steve opened and shut his mouth a few times. “You sure?” He said quietly, “I don’t mind staying in the guest room for a few nights. I just… I just want you to feel safe.”

Safe? Tony had absolutely no reason to feel anything but. Why would he? Everything was back to normal now. “Steve,” he chided, keeping his voice warm and fond, “are you still possessed by an alien artefact?”

Steve flinched wildly. “No! No, they… no.”

“Then there is no one that I could possibly feel safer with,” Tony nodded and then patted Steve’s side of the bed hopefully. He needed Steve to sleep with him tonight. He needed it, otherwise he was going to start going down into a spiral, and once that started it’d never goddamn stop, and right now Tony was doing a good job of keeping all that at bay. He wanted to keep it that way.

“Please, Steve,” he added when the man continued to remain stationary in the middle of the room.

Three seconds later, Steve stepped toward him, and Tony sighed in relief. Not broken, see? Just… a little bent out of shape. Only temporarily though – Tony was an engineer. He’d fix it. He could fix anything.

Steve smiled and sat gingerly down on the bed, making sure not to jostle Tony as he got comfy. Tony himself was pretty restricted- no shuffling down and curling up into Steve’s chest like he usually did, thanks to the massive cast on his damned leg- but he made sure to give Steve his best smile and then lean his head into Steve’s shoulder once they got within touching distance. “This… this is okay, right?” He asked, before biting the bullet and finishing with _“you’re_ okay?”

But Steve didn’t get mad. Of course he didn’t, that would have been ridiculous. He just turned his head a little bit into Tony’s, mouth ghosting over the top of his head. “I’m fine,” he assured, “don’t worry about me.”

“If you’re sure,” Tony mumbled, letting his eyes fall shut. He bit his lip, suddenly nervous to say the words on his tongue. But again, it was silly. Nothing had changed. Steve didn’t think… less of him, now. If Tony said it, he’d get the same thing back. “Love you.”

There was a pause. A second longer than there should normally be, where he felt Steve’s throat work silently and his hands twitch in the silence. Tony’s heart lurched. But then- “I love you too.”

He resisted the urge to breathe out in relief, instead just pursing his mouth and thanking his lucky stars that the words were still there. That Steve still felt that way about him, even when Tony had let him down.

He just prayed that it still held the meaning it’d used to. Until then, well… they could just focus on healing. Both of them.

 

 

___

  

 

Except it got worse.

 

Or, a better way of saying it was that the fault-lines became more obvious. Tony realised that most of them weren’t even belonging to Steve.

It was him. It was Tony who was messing up.

All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they’d been before, but his body wasn’t seeming to get the fucking memo. He kept… _calculating_. The weight of Steve’s movement as he reached up to grab his mug of coffee from the shelf, how far away he was from Tony, how long it’d take to reach him if he got angry. All completely stupid, ridiculous calculations that he forced himself to try and stop- but it just happened. Reflex.  

One time a week or so after Tony had been discharged from hospital, Steve had been talking to Thor and Tony about the ridiculous results of the baseball game he’d just watched, his words fast and hands flailing frustratedly through the air, and Tony had only realised he’d stepped smoothly out of reach when his butt had hit the stool and sent it toppling over. He must have moved fast. And the way Steve had looked at him when he’d turned his head had been something Tony never in his life wanted to see again.

After that, Steve stopped raising his voice entirely.

Tony, after an impressive 9 days in the wheelchair, had decided to fuck it and put himself onto crutches instead, and Steve hadn’t said a word about it. He hadn’t tried to argue, hadn’t attempted to convince Tony otherwise. He’d just… swallowed it all down and then asked Tony how his day had been. All arguments, quarrels, simple morning-time bickers over who had rights to the last slice of bread just vanished. Steve let him win. Every time.

Tony fucking hated it.

This wasn’t the Steve that he knew and loved. This Steve was quiet, he was _meek_. He shuffled nervously and never took his hands out of his pockets. He didn’t touch Tony unless Tony moved first, not once- not in bed, not in the field, nowhere.  
Worse, though, was perhaps the fact that sometimes Tony would spot Steve looking at him with a face so fucking desolate that it punched the breath straight out of his lungs. He’d watch Tony when he thought Tony couldn’t see; keep his eyes glued to the stupid leg or the mottled bruising across his face. Fuck, he barely even _spoke_.

Steve was a mess. That much was obvious.

Tony did his best to try and help him. He cuddled up close during movie nights and spoke more than necessary to fill the huge gaps of silence that reminded them both of everything they weren’t saying. He pushed past the niggling fear in the back of his mind that told him to avoid confrontation with Steve and forced himself to do it more, just to try and desensitize himself to it, remind himself that Steve wouldn’t hurt him anymore, not over the goddamn TV channel.

But it didn’t matter. No matter what he did, Steve didn’t fucking react.

“He needs time,” Bruce told him gently, when he watched Tony bristle in the kitchen one morning, “and so do you, Tony. You both got put through a lot. You can’t expect this to go back to normal.”

Tony just looked away, jaw clenched tight and hands fisting into the table. “He’s being stupid,” Tony snapped, “I’m fine, look at me. I wish he’d just get the fucking memo.”

Bruce’s face went more serious and he gave Tony a sharp look. “He got hurt too, Tony,” he said bluntly. “in a different way. He’s not being stupid and that’s not fair.”

But Tony only rolled his eyes and gave Bruce the middle finger irritably. He didn’t have time for the morality lecture, because he was well aware that he was being an asshole. To Steve, to the team, to everyone. It was just… _none of them were letting it go._ Tony had had a shitty few months, his head was all over the place and for a brief period he’d been on a downward spiral of self-hatred that had threatened to consume him entirely, sure, but it was _over now._ It was _done_. He wanted everyone else to be fucking done with it too, he didn’t want to be reminded constantly of everything Steve had fucking done to him while Tony had just stood there and taken it—

God, don’t think about that. Push it down. It was fine. “Yeah, whatever Bruce,” he muttered, pulling his hands off the table so that the other man wouldn’t see them start to shake. They did that so much these days, and he hated it. Hated every last part of himself, really. The way he jumped when doors opened and how sometimes when Steve came into the room looking unhappy, Tony sped through a quick checklist of things he’d done wrong and threw an apology straight up to his lips just in case.

What he hated most, though, was how even after everything had come to light- even now Tony knew that it hadn’t been Steve, it would never be Steve- he still wondered whether one day it might be. Like the curtains had been pulled back and the floodgates opened, Tony had gotten lost in the thoughts of how much it would take to push the real Steve Rogers to his limit. Make him snap, lash out, hit and scream like the other version had. Tony wasn’t, at his heart, a good man. He pushed and pushed and pushed, it was in his nature, and not only that, but he did it in the most asshole-ish way possible. He could probably turn God himself into a fit of violent rage. Steve, if it ever happened, would be entitled to that. Tony was someone who deserved a punch in the face occasionally.

That didn’t mean he was any less afraid of the possibility, though.

Tony blinked and tried to swallow, feeling the lump in his throat scratching through him. He remembered the first time he’d thought that when Steve had hit him- and the second, and the third. Clint’s words, that Tony had overheard in the living room before they’d noticed him entering, bounced around in his head like a siren. _‘It doesn’t matter, Nat- he’s the type of person who’ll always think they had it coming’._

That… wasn’t true. He was sure of it. He was a fucking superhero, he knew when to call it quits. When something was wrong or not. It was just that when it came to Tony, things were different. He drove people insane on a good day, and it was why he’d never been able to keep people long. _Too much,_ Ty had told him when he’d first smacked Tony, aged fifteen and in the back-room of some party Tony could hardly even remember _, you’re just too fucking much._

That was the crux of it. That was why people got violent with him. They couldn’t handle him, because he was loud and abrasive and rude and just took everyone’s love without ever giving jack shit back. No wonder so many relationships he’d been in had gotten violent.

Steve was the exception, obviously, because he’d been under some stupid mind control, but the point still stood. And maybe, one day, he’d snap too. For real. Tony could drive even the best men to the worst things, if he put his mind to it, after all.

_He’s the type of person who’ll always think they had it coming._

Tony wasn’t sure which part was more fucked up- the fact that he thought Clint was wrong, or the fact that maybe, just maybe, Clint could be right.

 

 

 ___

 

 

Things came to a head on a Saturday night, in the kitchen where it had all begun.

Tony was yelling at Steve, because Steve had decided to go out on a fucking SHIELD callout that morning without telling Tony, had walked out of it with a knife sticking out of his fucking thigh and then hadn’t even bothered to tell Tony as much until he’d jostled the man’s leg and heard him gasp in pain that evening.

“You didn’t even think you could give me a head’s up?” Tony shouted angrily, slamming the mug of his coffee down against the counter and making sure he was a good few paces away from Steve as he pointed a finger accusingly, “you just fucking strolled out there, headed into a top-secret terrorist base _without so much as a goodbye,_ and then didn’t bother to divulge the fact you’d gotten _stabbed?_ What the fuck is WRONG with you?”

Steve swallowed and looked down. “Sorry,” he murmured, “you were—you were in the workshop, I didn’t want to intrude—”

 _“Intrude?”_ Tony threw up his hands exasperatedly, “Steve, you never gave a shit about that before! You’ve come into the workshop and bodily handled me out of the room to a bed before without so much as a care for my personal fucking space, but now it’s too much to just say ‘toodles’?”

Steve was carefully stood on the other side of the room, hands in his pockets as he plastered himself up at the wall and looked numbly at the wall parallel to Tony. “Sorry,” he said again, quiet, “I’ll—next time, I’ll remember.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Steve, can you do something other than say sorry when we’re fighting?” Tony hissed at him, walking forward on his crutch and glaring, furious about more than just the fact Steve had done what he did that day- but about everything. About how Steve just let Tony fucking walk all over him, how he avoided Tony’s space whenever he could, how he felt like he couldn’t even come into Tony’s workshop to say goodbye any more. “Shout, scream back, do _something_ to fucking defend yourself, or—or make me feel better, something that’s not just fucking ‘sorry’!”

Steve’s mouth opened, then shut again, lost. He was pale and his eyes haunted as he looked at Tony. “No,” he whispered with a shake of his head, and Tony fucking lost it. With a scream of frustration, he turned around and grabbed the mug, throwing it viciously into the wall, just wanting to hear something that wasn’t Steve’s subdued voice. This wasn’t how they argued, this wasn’t how they did _anything_ , and Tony couldn’t fucking bear it.

He didn’t wait to watch the mug shatter against the wall before he turned back to Steve, face twisted in fury. “Shout at me,” he said, voice raising to a yell as he commanded, “tell me everything you think of me, call me a name, grab my shoulders and kiss me and tell me everything’s going to be alright, just fucking _DO IT!”_

Steve was shaking. He was shaking and his eyes were wet, and he looked up at Tony, ashen and exhausted. “I think we need to break up,” he said softly.

The bottom of Tony’s world fell away, leaving only the darkness of his words. His hands fell to his sides, numb.

He had to have heard that wrong. “What?”

“We need to break up,” Steve said again, voice wavering wildly, “this… this isn’t working, Tony. Look at this. Look at _us.”_

Tony shook his head, gobsmacked. Steve wasn’t saying that, he didn’t mean it, not really. “No, no, that’s… don’t be stupid, come on—”

“You think I don’t see the way you tense up when I walk up behind you?” Steve whispered, something so completely broken in his eyes that Tony thought he was going to cut himself on the edges, “you think I don’t notice how you’re constantly apologizing to me? You don’t even realise you’re doing it, Tony. I… _I did that._ I made you think everything you’re doing is wrong.” Steve pursed his lips and Tony watched, horror-stricken as a tear slipped silently down his cheek. All the fury had dried up in his chest, giving way to a heaving sense of loss, of desperation and agony. They couldn’t seriously be having this conversation.

“I know you argue with me,” Steve continued, “but I see the way your hands shake when you do. How you force yourself to move forward even when your body language is screaming ‘run’. I’m not blind, Tony. You’re still—you’re still scared of me.”

 _“No I’m not,”_ Tony hissed, “I’m _not_ scared of you, Steve, please, don’t… just come to bed, sleep it over, you’re tired—”

“This is all I’ve been thinking about for weeks, Tony,” Steve said with a broken little laugh. “It’s the only thing that’s ever on my mind. I got a knife in my leg because I was beating up a terrorist and then suddenly I remembered the last person I’d hit had been _you_ , and it terrified me so much that I couldn’t even move, and he stabbed me. I… I can’t keep doing this.” He shook his head, defeated as he slumped against the fridge. “I just can’t. It’s killing me.”

Tony couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything. He felt a drop of coffee on his wrist from where he’d thrown the mug trickle down his index finger and build at the tip. Steve was still looking at him with that broken, broken face as he cried silently.

Honestly, it felt less real than it had when Steve was hitting him. Breaking up was just… absurd. Not even in Tony’s realm of possibility. They were—they were _Steve & Tony,_ they were _together_ , that had always been what they were. Tony was going to marry him and live out the rest of his life with Steve’s last name and a ring on his finger that bound him to the other man forever and he _wanted it,_ he’d wanted that since the first year of dating.

Steve was a sure thing. These past few months, they’d just been a blip. A problem they could work through, the same they did with everything else. Steve’s words made no sense at all.

He laughed, hoarse. “You. You can’t be serious, Steve. We’ve… all this time, and you want to just—just give up?” He raised his eyebrows, expecting Steve to crack a smile and laugh, agree with him, admit how fucking crazy that was. But Steve didn’t, and something horrible started to settle in Tony’s mind: understanding. “No,” he whispered, “no, Steve, sweetheart, come on—”

“It doesn’t have to be… Tony, I love you more than anything in the world, you know I do,” Steve choked, stepping forward, unable to help himself, “but we need a break. We need… time, space, _something_. This isn’t working. You know it isn’t.”

Tony stumbled forward, taking Steve’s hand in his shaking fingers and holding on desperately. He wasn’t above begging, never had been. For Steve, to keep Steve, he’d do just about anything, as shown from the events of the last few stupid _stupid_ months. “I’ll be better,” he promised with a furious nod of his head, “I will, Steve, I swear, don’t go. Please, come on, I’ll do anything, just… please. Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be weak, I didn’t—I’m—”

“No, Tony, stop,” Steve said broken-heartedly, taking Tony’s hand and pulling it up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles gently, shaking his head as the tears slipped freely. “This was never, _ever_ your fault. I’m not saying it has to be permanent. But we have to see if you—to see if we can work this out. Until then, I… I can’t sleep in the same bed as you and know that you’re _scared of me_ , Tony. I won’t.” He blinked rapidly, thumb brushing the tears out of Tony’s eyes. His voice was wrecked. “It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to me either. Please understand this. For me, Tony. I can’t— God, fuck, I just can’t bear it. It’s breaking my fucking heart.”

Deep down, Tony knew he was right. Steve was good at this; the tactical evaluation, the cold hard facts and logic as opposed to Tony’s emotionally driven responses. It was why they complemented one another so well on the field- Tony was the heart and Steve was the head. And where Tony would cling on to this, desperate to try and have Steve as close as possible and try and just pretend none of this shit had ever happened, Steve looked at it logically. Steve knew that it _had_ , and it wasn’t going away, and that right now, what they were doing was unhealthy for both of them.

So Steve was ending it. He was ending it because he knew Tony never would.

“But I love you,” Tony told him, numb and pleading, like that alone could change Steve’s mind and make him stay.

Steve just smiled wetly, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Tony’s forehead. “I know,” he whispered, “I know. I love you too, okay?  This… this isn’t because of that. This isn’t because I blame you, or I think it’s your fault, or anything. This is just me, trying to do what’s best for us. I need you to understand that.”

Tony had pushed too far. He should have just accepted Steve’s apology five minutes ago instead of being a fucking asshole and getting angry, and then none of this would have happened.

(Who was he fucking kidding? Steve had been thinking about it for weeks, he’d said so himself, Tony was too fucking fragmented for Steve to stay with on a good conscience and now was the day that he was finally letting that out. Maybe Tony could have stretched it longer if he’d kept his mouth shut, maybe had another week, but it had been inevitable. Hell, even if none of this had happened in the first place, there had probably always been a cut-off point. A time when Steve finally gave up trying to fix all of Tony’s broken fucking parts and let him go. This was just what happened. This was life. This was Steve trying to salvage whatever scraps he could before the whole ship sank, and who was Tony to blame him for that?)

He nodded, voice empty as he looked down at the floor. “I understand.”

Steve’s breath hitched and he choked, whining softly and pulling Tony’s head back up with his gentle gentle fingers. “Tony, whatever you’re thinking, I’m begging you to stop,” he said, “please. This doesn’t have to be… official. Just a break, okay? Just… a chance for you to heal, without me there hindering you.”

Tony couldn’t talk. Didn’t have a clue what to say even if he could. He thought about getting on his knees and begging Steve to stay, seeing where that led him.

But Steve had made his choice, and Tony knew the man. He was stubborn, and when he thought something was right, there was no changing his mind.

This was it.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna get some stuff,” Steve said, and Tony wasn’t sure how much time had passed, it was just going over him like a blur as he watched Steve slowly slip away, head down, looking at the floor. “I… I think I’ll head out to DC for a while, see how… yeah.”

Tony watched him- the way his hands pushed into his face and wiped away the wetness over his cheeks, the way he tightened his jaw and took a deep breath in, trying to compose himself. He finally looked up at Tony with a small smile. “Things are gonna work out,” he said with a nod, “I promise.”

 _No_ , _they won’t,_ Tony thought, _not without you here to help me._

Steve lifted his hand slowly and settled it against Tony’s cheek, just for a second. He nodded again, like he was convincing himself.

Then his hand slipped away and he left. Just like that. 

**Author's Note:**

> im so fucken sorry oof


End file.
